


Gates Of Hell

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Fear No Evil [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Amnesia, Demonic Possession, Guilt, Hell, M/M, Monks, Nightmares, Religious Discussion, Rescue, Rituals, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6445801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2784206/chapters/6248462">Deliver Us From Evil</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4969654/chapters/11413288">Devil's Acre</a>.</p><p>When d'Artagnan goes missing for two days with no memory of where he's been, the efforts of the others to find out what happened to him leads them to a sinister ritual in a disused chapel, an old enemy - and a gateway to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"God!" 

Porthos sat bolt upright in bed, bathed in sweat and fighting for breath, only relaxing by inches as the horrors of his nightmare gradually faded away and he found himself safe in his own bed. 

Pushing the covers back he walked over to the basin and splashed cold water on his face, heedless of the chill in the room. The sun was only just starting to peek through the curtains, but he knew he'd get no more sleep that night - had got precious little in the first place, working until well past midnight to put off the moment when he'd have to turn out the light.

He peered at himself in the mirror. There were shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, and in the low light his skin seemed to have a greyish tinge to it. Porthos groaned, rubbing his face and slumping back down onto the narrow bed, his head in his hands. He didn't know how long he could go on like this, but also had no idea how to make it stop. 

Pulling a dressing gown on over his pyjamas he padded down the corridor to the shared bathroom and ran a bath, hoping to soak away the lingering feeling of oppression. The rest of the floor was quiet, none of his fellow students being awake yet, and he eased thankfully into the warm water, letting his thoughts drift to happier things. He was due to meet Athos later for lunch, and the prospect successfully lifted his spirits out of their gloom. 

Porthos let his hand drift down under the water, teasing himself to a state of semi-hardness as he thought about Athos and the things they'd done together. There was unlikely to be much scope for misbehaving over a decorous lunch in one of the city's tearooms, but he'd kept his afternoon clear in the hope that Athos might have plans that exceeded an egg and cress sandwich.

They'd reached something of a compromise lately - Athos was still wary of Porthos being seen to stay in his rooms overnight, but he had tried to make it up to him with a certain amount of furtive afternoon sex. To Porthos this felt even more exciting, but he was aware it still made Athos a little uncomfortable. Porthos didn't know what the answer was, but for now it was sort of working, so he wasn't going to poke at it.

He slid a little deeper in the water, drowsy and warm. His eyes drooped, his hand drifted away from his groin to rest against the side of the tub. It wasn't the largest bath in the world, and Porthos shifted a little to get comfortable. His shoulders were restricted, and his knees a little bent, and he banged his elbow as he tried to stretch out. The pain made him open his eyes, but they opened onto unexpected darkness, and his searching hands abruptly met rough stone not smooth ceramic. 

Suddenly frantic, Porthos tried to sit up but banged his head with a dull thud on a hard surface and found himself plunged back beneath the water. Hitting out with hands and feet he discovered he was trapped, shut up in a stone coffin, and one that was full to the brim with water. 

Lungs burning, he tried to fight the urge to scream for help and thereby let the water in. Beating upwards with his fists and on the verge of utter panic, suddenly Porthos found himself thrashing in free air, sitting up in the bath and sloshing water all over the floor. 

Porthos sagged against the side, taking deep shaking breaths. He'd fallen asleep, that was all, his short night's rest catching up with him and the nightmares waiting for him just on the other side. He pulled himself out with a shudder and towelled off quickly. Sunshine and fresh air, that was what he needed. And coffee. 

\--

The gusty spring breeze had a sharp edge to it, but the sky was a clear blue, there were bright flowers in tubs all around the square, and Porthos felt his mood lift accordingly. 

He'd dressed smartly for his lunch date with Athos, still self-conscious about appearing in some of the more up-market establishments and nervous of looking out of place. Porthos fiddled with his cufflinks while he waited. They were set with discreet but flawless square-cut emeralds, a Christmas present from Athos that Porthos had scolded him over but adored to pieces, and he wore them whenever he could.

Porthos looked up to find Athos hurrying towards him across the square. In a tweed jacket and ancient woollen scarf, with hair that was desperately in need of a trim, he was the very image of a scatty professor, and Porthos found himself grinning helplessly at him as he approached.

"Hello. Sorry, am I late?" Athos was slightly out of breath, and Porthos had to resist the urge to fling his arms round him and give him a hug.

"No, you're alright, I was early. How's things?"

Athos rolled his eyes. "I thought d'Artagnan's year was bad. I've spent the entire morning trying to coax one half of a seminar group to say anything at all, and to get the other half to shut up. I need lunch. Preferably with wine. And very possibly cake." Athos slipped his arm through Porthos', a simple gesture that made Porthos' heart swell with pleasure. "Come on, I'm buying."

They went to a nearby cafe and ate heartily until both were in a happily sated torpor. 

"Are you busy? Can I show you something?" Athos murmured as they practically waddled out of the door afterwards, toying with the frayed end of his scarf and not looking up.

Porthos nudged him. "Anything you like," he agreed with a smirk.

Athos smiled at the suggestive remark, but still looked unaccustomedly shy, and Porthos frowned at him. "What's up?"

Athos said nothing, but lead him down a succession of side streets until they came to stand outside a row of cottages much like any other in the town.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" Porthos asked, sensing that they'd reached their destination but still none the wiser.

"Number three," said Athos. "I've - taken a lease on it."

"You what?" Porthos stared at him in surprise.

"I finally got the remaining money through from the sale of the Hall," Athos explained. "It meant I had enough to look at somewhere - well. Off campus, as it were."

"You like living in the university though," Porthos blurted. 

Athos shrugged, hunching his shoulders a little and sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. "Not very discreet though, is it? Out here - well, I - suppose I figured we could do what we liked a bit more."

Porthos stared at him. "You did this for _me_?"

Athos shrugged again, but nodded at the same time, looking increasingly nervous and embarrassed.

Porthos looked up and down the street to make sure they were alone, then leaned in to whisper in Athos' ear. "I bloody hope you've got the key on you, because otherwise I shall be forced to kiss you in the street."

Athos gave a startled laugh, and finally looked up at him. "You don't mind? You think it's okay?"

"Mind?" Porthos looked incredulous. "Athos I think it's amazing. You're amazing." That Athos would do such a thing - had _done_ such a thing, quietly and without saying anything, so that they could be together, blew Porthos' mind. He'd been worrying that he was pressuring Athos into risks he didn't want to take and here was Athos, calmly finding the solution. 

Porthos couldn't help himself, he slid his hand into Athos' and squeezed it. Athos gave him a look somewhere between guilty and pleased, and returned the pressure of his fingers for a moment before withdrawing his hand. As this was only to produce a door key from his pocket, Porthos didn't mind.

"I met the agent this morning, it's why I was running late," Athos explained, letting them in. 

The rooms had the slight mustiness of those that had sat empty for some time, but overall Porthos thought the cottage was charming. There was a sitting room with a large hearth, a little kitchen, and beyond that a bathroom with a sloping roof that was clearly a later addition. From the sitting room a stair wound up to the first floor and two bedrooms, a larger one at the front and a smaller second one at the back.

"At least it keeps up appearances," Athos said a little sheepishly. "If anyone comments on you staying over. I can always use it as a study."

Porthos wound his arms around Athos' waist and pulled him in for a kiss. "You, are incredible," Porthos announced. "Have I told you how much I love you lately?"

Athos blushed but he didn't pull away, rather he leaned into Porthos' embrace and kissed him back just as fervently. It was a good kiss, and it lasted a long time, leaving them smiling helplessly at each other and feeling fidgety with desire.

"Pity there's no furniture," Porthos grinned. "If there was a bed I'd have you right here."

Athos laughed, and took his hand. "Why don't we go back to my rooms?" He lead Porthos over to the stairs then looked back over his shoulder with a mischievous smirk. "You can help me pack."

\--

As they walked in through the college gatehouse, a respectably attired lady stepped out of a door as they passed and called after them.

"Professor la Fère? There's a telephone call for you."

Athos exchanged a surprised look with Porthos. "You go on ahead," he said. "Light the fire if you want. I'll catch you up." He disappeared into the gatehouse, and Porthos wandered on alone.

He let himself into Athos' rooms which were, as Athos had predicted, rather chilly. Porthos got down on his knees by the grate and laid a fire, settling back in Athos' armchair with a sense of satisfaction as soon as the crackling flames took hold.

Athos found him there a few minutes later, head back and fast asleep. He smiled, taking the rug from the couch and draping it gently over Porthos' lap before settling at the table in the window with some letters.

He'd been working for about ten minutes when he became aware of Porthos mumbling in his sleep. Athos looked over at him, his fond expression turning into a slight frown as he realised Porthos sounded rather unhappy. Little protesting noises were escaping his lips, and Porthos' head was twisting from side to side in apparent distress.

Athos got up and went to him, bending over Porthos and patting his hand gently.

"Porthos? Porthos, wake up." 

Porthos woke with a start, staring at Athos for a second with unseeing eyes before taking in his surroundings with a gasp of relief that was close to a sob.

Athos sat himself down on Porthos' lap and wrapped his arms around him in concerned reassurance. "It's okay," Athos murmured. "It was just a dream. Just a bad dream, that's all." He stroked Porthos' hair and hugged him tight, taken aback by the way Porthos clung to him and buried his face in Athos' jumper.

After a while Porthos pulled back looking embarrassed, but kept Athos firmly seated in his lap. "Sorry," he muttered, clearing his throat. "Daft of me."

"Are you alright?" Athos asked softly. "You're not working yourself too hard are you? I know you want to do well, but you have to take care of yourself too. I didn't like to say before, but you're looking terribly tired."

Porthos looked up at him, expression tight and drawn. "I didn't get much sleep," he confessed. "I didn't go to bed until past midnight. I was - putting it off."

"Putting what off?"

"The moment where I have to go to sleep," Porthos admitted wearily. "I keep - dreaming."

"Bad dreams?" Athos asked, taking his hand and kissing Porthos' knuckles.

Porthos hesitated, then nodded. "The details change, but the basics are always the same. I'm trapped somewhere. Underground, mostly. The walls are closing in on me, and I can't go back, can't go forwards. Sometimes I'm buried. I can feel the earth falling into my face." Porthos gave a convulsive shudder, and Athos looked increasingly worried.

"You were having nightmares at Christmas," Athos said slowly. Porthos nodded, and he frowned. "Porthos - are you saying you've been having nightmares all this time?"

Porthos nodded again, hanging his head. Athos stared at him.

"But that's nearly four months! Why didn't you tell me?"

Porthos shrugged tiredly. "Not like there was anything you could have done about it. Anyway, it wasn't every night at first. It's - been getting worse," he admitted.

Athos looked stricken. "This is my fault. It's because of what happened to you at the house. I should never have taken you there."

Porthos scowled. "You see? This, this is exactly why I didn't tell you. I knew you'd blame yourself. It's not your fault Athos. It's just not." 

"I'm sorry." Athos leaned against Porthos' chest and hugged him gently. "I hate to think of you suffering alone. You should have told me before."

Porthos kissed him on the cheek. "Didn't want you to think I was angling for more nights in your bed," he sighed.

Athos groaned. "Oh Porthos." He leaned their foreheads together, until Porthos broke the moment by leaning up to kiss him on the lips.

"Enough about my problems," said Porthos with a determined smile. "What was your mysterious phonecall about?"

Athos sat up, and looked perplexed. "It was Aramis," he said.

"Aramis! What did he want?"

"It's about d'Artagnan," Athos told him. It was Porthos' turn to groan.

"Oh God, don't tell me they've broken up again?"

Athos shook his head. "No. According to Aramis - well. He claims d'Artagnan's disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Porthos was startled. "What do you mean disappeared?"

Athos shrugged. "He was supposed to meet him in London for the weekend, and never turned up."

"Well - did he just forget, or - ?"

"He's been out at the monastery on the old St Albans road all week, he's been helping catalogue part of their library. Apparently Aramis put a call through to them when d'Artagnan didn't turn up and they haven't seen him either, they'd assumed he'd left." Athos pursed his lips. "He's not in his rooms here, I checked on the way back. And the others on his floor haven't seen him."

"Maybe he just got a better offer," Porthos suggested, and Athos gave a wry smile. 

"I'm afraid that was my first thought. D'Artagnan's a smart lad, I'm sure he can take care of himself whatever he's up to. You on the other hand - "

"What about me?" Porthos looked affronted.

"You need sleep." Athos stood up and held out his hand with a smile. "Come on. Let's go to bed. I reckon I can wear you out enough first that no bad dreams have got a fighting chance."

\--

It was dark when Porthos woke up alone in the bed, but there was a lamp lit in the outer room, and he could hear Athos moving around. He squinted at the clock, which seemed to say ten past eight. He'd been asleep for about four hours then, and realised with a shock of relief that there'd been no nightmares.

Having undressed and climbed into bed together they'd made love with a quiet passion for an hour or more, after which Athos had held him and soothed him until Porthos had fallen asleep in his arms. 

Now, Porthos reluctantly clambered out of the warm bed and hunted for his clothes. He'd left them scattered on the floor in his haste, but discovered Athos had since folded them neatly away on a chair.

"Leaving so soon?" Porthos turned to find Athos leaning in the doorway, smiling at him.

"Would hate to outstay my welcome." Porthos was conscious Athos found it a source of supreme discomfort to have him here overnight, and had no wish to put his reputation at risk. The sooner they could take advantage of that cottage the better.

"Stay, won't you?" Athos said quietly. "The curtains are closed and no one will imagine you've been here all day. I'm not expecting any visitors."

Porthos sat gratefully back down on the edge of the bed, and Athos came over to him. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. Thanks to you." Porthos took his hands and drew Athos down onto his lap. "You're obviously my lucky charm."

Athos smiled and kissed the top of his head. "Are you hungry? I've made some supper, would you like me to bring it in?"

"You're an angel." 

"A charm _and_ an angel? My, I am doing well today," Athos laughed. 

Porthos grinned. "Don't forget devilishly handsome."

Athos snorted and got up, leaving Porthos to scramble back under the covers. 

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Athos told him sternly, but he was smiling as he left the room.

"I'm hoping flattery will get me dinner," Porthos called after him, and settled back with a contented sigh.

\--

For the rest of that night Porthos mostly slept well, waking once in the small hours in a shaking sweat, but with only hazy memories of the preceding dream. Athos had reached out for him, still half-asleep himself, and pulled Porthos into his arms murmuring reassurances. 

In the morning Porthos felt more refreshed than he had for a long time. It wasn't that he didn't dream when he was with Athos, he realised, but that he was less scared of going to sleep in the first place. 

The following day kept them both busy with classes, but as evening fell they happened to cross paths in one of the quadrangles. Athos was in the middle of eagerly telling him that all was finalised with the cottage and he could move in whenever he liked when Porthos frowned and touched his arm, nodding towards the gatehouse.

Athos turned to see what had caught his attention. "Hmmn. He turned up then."

Walking under the arch from the road were d'Artagnan and Aramis, deep in conversation. In fact it looked very like an argument, until d'Artagnan caught sight of them and headed over with Aramis trailing behind, looking exasperated.

"What have you been up to, you little scallywag?" Porthos grinned.

D'Artagnan looked surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I telephoned Athos," Aramis said quietly. "I thought you might have come back here." D'Artagnan swung round on him with a surprisingly fierce glare. 

"What, now you have a network of spies to keep an eye on me?" He threw up his hands in frustration. "I'm going to my room. I need a change of clothes. And a less oppressive atmosphere." He stormed off, leaving the others staring after him in some surprise.

"What happened?" Athos asked quietly. Aramis sighed. 

"I don't know. He won't tell me. Or at least - " he hesitated. "He says he can't remember."

"Can't _remember_?" Athos echoed in astonishment.

"That's what he says." Aramis rubbed his face wearily. "Two whole days unaccounted for. And when I try and press him about it he just gets angry and defensive."

"I hate to say it, but - do you think he might have been with someone else?" Athos ventured.

Aramis shook his head slowly. "Honestly, I don't think he was. I think he would have told me. It's not like I haven't had my own lapses, it wouldn't have been a problem."

"You think something happened to him then? Some sort of trauma, that he's perhaps blocking out?" Athos asked worriedly.

"That's what I'm afraid of." Aramis sighed. "I don't know, he seems physically fine, but - he turned up at my door late this morning demanding to know why I wasn't at the station to meet him. He didn't even realise what day it was, Athos. How can a man lose forty eight hours of his life and not even notice?"

"Beats me." Athos and Porthos exchanged a baffled glance. "Would you like me to have a word with him?" Athos offered.

"Would you?" Aramis sounded grateful. "He might be more willing to talk to you. I just seem to be rubbing him up the wrong way."

Porthos gave an involuntary snigger and Athos stepped on his foot. 

"Of course. Are you going back to London?"

"No, I'll stick around for a couple of days I think," Aramis told them. "I'll take a room at the Royal. Just until I'm convinced he's really okay." 

"That's good, you can help with the furniture shifting then," Porthos said cheerfully. Aramis looked confused, which lead to them having to explain all about the cottage.

Aramis proved enthusiastic, and promised to stick around for as long as he could be of help. "It'll make it look less like I'm hanging about to keep an eye on d'Artagnan, too," he declared cheerfully.

\--

"D'Artagnan!"

"What?" D'Artagnan spun in the hallway and glared at Athos who'd just stepped out of the library behind him. Athos just stared at him with a level gaze until d’Artagnan winced. "Sir," he added awkwardly. 

They'd been through a lot together over the last eighteen months, and it was hard at times to remember that in public at least, the appearance of a teacher/student dynamic must be maintained.

"Are you busy this afternoon?" Athos asked politely. D'Artagnan shuffled his feet, looking mutinous. It was Saturday, so Athos would know he had no classes. 

"Not especially."

"I was hoping you might be able to give me a hand packing some things," Athos told him. "I have taken lodgings in the city."

"You're moving out of college?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise, his defensive demeanour dropping away as it seemed Athos wasn't intent on quizzing him on his recent disappearing act.

"Yes. Not far. Just - far enough for a little more privacy."

"Oh, right." D'Artagnan suddenly caught on, and nodded hastily. "I see. Good plan."

Athos gave him an amused smile. "I'm glad you approve. So you'll help me pack?"

"Yes, of course."

"Thank you. Much obliged. I'll see you later then." Athos turned to leave, then looked back. "Oh, Aramis is staying to help too. He and Porthos have hired a van to move my furniture." Before d'Artagnan could protest or change his mind, Athos had hurried off in the opposite direction.

\--

To d'Artagnan's relief, when he knocked on the door that afternoon Athos was the only person in residence.

"Hallo. Thank you for doing this, it's a big help," Athos said warmly, ushering him inside. "Not that I have a great deal of stuff, half the furniture belongs to the college anyway, but it'll be so much quicker with four of us." 

"No problem." D'Artagnan looked around the room with a slight pang of sadness. He had many fond memories of cosy winter evenings spent in here by Athos' fire. It looked quite different with half the books taken down from the shelves and a dusty patch of floorboards where the settee had stood.

"You will be just as welcome at the cottage," Athos said quietly, as if reading his mind. D'Artagnan flashed him a grateful look.

"Where would you like me to start?"

"There's a couple of empty tea chests over there, could you start putting the rest of the books in them please? Porthos maintains he can lift them even when full, and who am I to argue?"

For a while they worked in companionable silence, interrupted only by a porter knocking on the open window to hand Athos his post. He dropped the small pile onto the sideboard and resumed his packing.

"That's a point. I'll need to get my post redirected," he frowned. "Or I suppose they could always hold it for me at the porter's lodge. I'll still be here most days after all."

"Is Porthos moving in with you?" d'Artagnan asked cheekily. Athos threw a nervous look at the open window.

"Not on a permanent basis," he said, rather more quietly. "But - it will certainly make his visits less obvious, yes."

"I spent a lot of evenings here alone with you," d'Artagnan pointed out. "You never worried people thought you were sleeping with me."

Athos gave him a sharp look, then sighed. "I suppose a guilty conscience makes one inclined to be a lot more paranoid," he admitted. "Talking of guilty consciences - is there anything you want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" d'Artagnan asked indignantly.

Athos stopped packing for a moment and brushed dust from his hands, leaning back against the shelves. "You went missing for two days, according to Aramis," he said quietly. "He was worried about you."

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said stiffly. "You can see that."

"Where were you? With another man?"

D'Artagnan looked up sharply. "Is that what Aramis thinks?"

"No, he says you don't remember. And seems inclined to believe you. I, on the other hand, confess to being less charitably inclined."

For a second d'Artagnan looked furious, then sagged in defeat. "It's true though," he said miserably. "I really don't." 

Athos frowned. "What happened? I mean - what's the last thing you do remember? And the next? Take me through it. Two days - that's a long time. Are you hurt?" he added gently.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No. At least - no." 

"Tell me?" Athos coaxed. "You can, I promise. I won't tell Aramis, if you don't want me to."

D'Artagnan looked at him, clearly conflicted. "It's not like that," he sighed finally. "It's trivial, really. I just don't know how I got it." He held out his left hand. Across his palm was a dark cut mark, scabbed and painful looking. Athos winced.

"That must hurt."

"Stings like crazy. And itched all night." D'Artagnan sighed, throwing himself down into the one remaining arm chair. "Alright. Here's what I know. I was in the abbey library, working on that blasted catalogue."

"The blasted catalogue that forms an important part of your dissertation?" Athos interjected mildly, pulling across a dining chair and sitting down. Athos had arranged for the placement himself, and was now feeling guilty to think that something had might have happened to d'Artagnan because of it.

D'Artagnan gave him a sheepish look. "Yeah, that one. Anyway, I suppose I wasn't really working that hard. I was thinking about meeting Aramis, and how soon I could leave."

"Diligent as ever," Athos said dryly. "Go on." 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "That's just it. I don't know. My mind was wandering - I guess maybe I fell asleep. Next thing I know there's this pain in my hand, and I've got a huge cut there. I assumed I must have done it on a nail or something, maybe I slipped when I dropped off."

Athos frowned. "You were still in the library at this point?" 

"Yes." D'Artagnan looked at him pleadingly. "I'm not making it up Athos, I swear. I cleaned up the cut and put a bandage on it, tidied up the papers I was working on, and left for London. Waited ages for Aramis at the station, then got a cab to his house. At which point I discover it's Friday not Wednesday. I mean - I know time passes slowly when you're surrounded by a bunch of mouldy old monks, but I'm certain I didn't get that confused."

"How strange." Athos rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Was it bleeding?" he asked suddenly. "The cut? When you first noticed it? I mean, was it a fresh wound?"

D'Artagnan blinked at him. "No," he realised. "It was already scabbed over."

"So it had happened some time before you came to then," Athos mused. "Hours before - maybe even a day or so?"

"I guess." D’Artagnan looked miserably at him. "What does it mean? Am I going mad?"

"Oh, I doubt that." Athos got to his feet and clapped him on the shoulder. "I doubt that very much. Tell you what, why don't we have a nice restorative cup of tea?" He looked round the room, frowning. "Assuming I haven't packed the teapot, that is."

\--


	2. Chapter 2

Having finally located the teapot under a pile of newspapers, Athos brewed up and started flicking through his post. A subscription renewal for a journal, a letter from a colleague in France, and an invitation to a linguistics symposium that had apparently been held last week, leading Athos to wonder if the postal service had fallen into whatever time sink had befallen d'Artagnan.

A final item that had been stuck to the bottom of the last envelope fluttered to the floor and Athos bent to pick it up.

"That's curious."

"What is it?" d'Artagnan asked, looking up from his tea.

"No name." Athos turned the letter over in his hand. It was made of parchment rather than writing paper, a single sheet folded over and sealed with wax. "And it looks genuinely old. I know the post office is getting sloppy with deliveries, but I've never heard of something taking several hundred years to arrive." 

Athos made to prise open the seal, suspecting it was probably a missive from one of his students being massively pretentious, only to jump at a sudden howl from d'Artagnan.

"No!" D'Artagnan leapt to his feet, upsetting cup and saucer. 

"Whatever's the matter?" Athos asked, seeing that d'Artagnan had gone quite pale.

"Don't open that!" 

"Why not?" Athos looked down at the letter still in his hand. It looked quite innocuous.

"Just - don't." D'Artagnan was still holding out a hand towards him as if to emphasise his words. "Please."

"Alright." Seeing d'Artagnan was quite beside himself, Athos carefully put the letter down again on the tea tray. "There. Is that better?"

D'Artagnan slumped with relief, only to seemingly realise for the first time that he'd spilled tea all over the floor. The saucer had landed on the rug but the cup had been less lucky, hitting the bare floorboards and cracking in two.

"Oh Athos, I'm so sorry." 

"Not to worry." Athos fetched a cloth and mopped up the puddle of tea. "Something always gets broken in a move." He dug another one out of the newspaper in a tea chest and poured d'Artagnan a fresh cup.

"Now. What's the problem? Why don't you want me to open that letter, who's it from?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Not who - where."

Athos looked blank, and he sighed. "It was there. In the library. Before I - well before whatever the hell happened to me happened."

"You're sure?" Athos picked up the letter again and d'Artagnan flinched.

"Yes I'm sure! Put it down Athos, please!"

"You said you didn't remember." Athos flapped it absently at him. "Anyway, how did it get here?"

"I don't know!" D'Artagnan put his head in his hands. "I remember - there was a folder of letters I was going through. Dating right back, some of it to the foundation of the abbey. It was mostly - land grants, letters from various bishops, that sort of thing. And then - that. Lying underneath everything else. Like it was waiting for me."

"Don't be so melodramatic." Athos peered more closely at it. "This looks like it's been opened and resealed again. Was that you?"

D'Artagnan shrugged helplessly, but came over to look. Athos was right, there was the original seal, the wax brittle and darkened by age with some sort of design pressed into it. Then over the top a fresher blob of sealing wax, inexpertly applied. 

"I think - I think I opened it," d'Artagnan said slowly. "I think something bad happened."

"Could you be marginally more specific?" Athos asked, but d'Artagnan shuddered and backed away again. 

"I don't want to think about it," he said, shivering convulsively. "I don't think I want to remember!"

Athos stared at him for a while, then sighed. "Fine then. Do you want me to burn it?" It went against all his principles to burn a possibly important historic document, but after everything they'd been through recently he was more inclined to set fire to things first and ask questions later. And he trusted d'Artagnan. If he said there was something malign about it - then there quite possibly was.

"No. I don't think that would be wise either," d'Artagnan counselled, calming down a little. He groaned. "I need to remember, don't I? Or we'll never know why it's important."

"Aramis has had moderate success with hypnotic techniques in the past," Athos said. "It's possible he could help you get past the blockage. If you're brave enough to face it."

Stung, d'Artagnan sat up and frowned at him. "I'm no coward." He stared dubiously at the letter, as Athos propped it up against a picture frame on the sideboard, out of the way. "Promise me you won't open it?"

"I promise." Athos patted him on the shoulder. "Now, do you think you could manage to pack the rest of my crockery up without breaking any more of it?"

\--

"So how's d'Artagnan?" Porthos asked, lifting a large aspidistra in a brass pot down from its stand and sneezing. "Jesus, when did you last dust this thing?"

"It's a plant, it doesn't need dusting," Athos said absently. "Also, I don't dust. D'Artagnan seems - confused. He maintains he has no idea what happened to him during those two days, and seems to be telling the truth. He's got a cut on his hand that he can't explain, and his memories stop and restart in the same location, which I suppose goes some way to explaining why he didn't notice at first."

"Three days in the same clothes and he didn't notice?" Porthos wrinkled his nose.

"Student," said Athos smugly, and Porthos raised his eyebrows.

"Oi!"

"You're a mature student, doesn't count." Athos had stopped in front of the sideboard, hand on hips. "Porthos have you moved the letter that was here?"

"No? Don't think so," Porthos said, coming over and sliding his hands round Athos' waist.

"Don't, someone might see," Athos objected with a smile, wriggling free of his grasp.

"Close the curtains then." Porthos ducked his head to try and kiss the back of his neck.

"In the middle of the afternoon? I really will get a reputation for being odd." Athos fended him off, frowning. "Be serious, there was a letter here, it was propped against the picture. Where's it gone?"

"I dunno, I told you, I never saw it," Porthos protested, giving up on trying to kiss Athos and picking up the photograph frame instead to add it to the box. "Was it important?"

"I'm not sure," Athos mused. "It got d'Artagnan very worked up. I thought at first it had come with the post, but I think he must have brought it with him. It might be the key to unlocking his memories."

"It'll turn up," Porthos advised. "Probably fallen down the back, we'll find it when we move the sideboard out." He frowned. "Here, was this picture always this faded?"

Athos looked over his shoulder. The photograph was the only thing he'd brought back from his ancestral home, and depicted a family group, including Athos himself and his brother as little boys. The shot seemed clouded somehow, the figure of Athos' father almost completely obscured by a dark stain.

"No. It must be reacting with the sunlight," Athos said, frowning. "Remind me to put it somewhere darker in the cottage." Porthos gave him a mock salute and Athos looked pained. "Sorry, am I giving orders? I don't mean to. It's very kind of you to help me."

Porthos waggled his eyebrows. "Soon as it's just me an' you in that cottage you can give me all the orders you like. So let's get this stuff shifted, eh?"

Aramis and d'Artagnan returned from the last furniture run at that point, and the penultimate load of Athos' belongings were duly ferried out to the van.

"My turn to go," Porthos said quickly, wanting to escape the dusty and tedious packing duties. "D'Artagnan'll never manage to get that sideboard out again."

D'Artagnan stuck his tongue out, but didn't object. "You want to do the heavy lifting, that's fine by me," he declared, slapping Porthos on the shoulder. "Just don't put your back out eh, or Athos'll have to make his own entertainment tonight."

Sniggering, Porthos climbed into the passenger seat while Aramis revved the engine.

"Do drive safely won't you?" Athos called up acidly. "I should hate my furniture to arrive in the form of matchwood."

"I'll try not to break anything," Aramis promised, then winked at him. "Including Porthos."

Grumbling at the fact his friends all seemed determined to make a scandal of him Athos stalked back inside, scanning the bare floorboards in bemusement and wondering again where the letter had gone. Maybe d'Artagnan had taken it back.

\--

Aramis staggered in with the aspidistra in its heavy pot and dumped it on the draining board in the kitchen with a sigh of relief. "That's the last of it. One more load with whatever's left and Athos'll be all moved in." He came back into the sitting room where Porthos was still manhandling a tea chest of books in through the front door. "Need a hand?"

"Nah, I've got it." Porthos walked the heavy crate across the floor and let it come to rest with a crash. "What's he need so many books for, that's what I want to know?"

"Insulation?" Aramis grinned. "Oh, here, you dropped something." A piece of paper had drifted to the ground and he bent to retrieve it.

Porthos took it from him, frowning. "I don't remember packing this. Athos said he'd lost a letter, I wonder if it was this one? He said it might hold the key to d'Artagnan's memory loss."

"Really? What does it say?" Aramis asked immediately, and Porthos slid his thumb under the wax seal.

As soon as he lifted the flap a loud splintering noise made both men flinch. Porthos looked up in surprise to see that the mirror he'd hung on the opposite wall just a few minutes earlier was now broken and crazed, his reflection staring jaggedly back at him through a distorted cobweb of cracks.

"Woah." He stared back down at the paper in his hand, wondering confusedly if something had shot out of it. "What happened?"

Aramis frowned. "It must have got twisted in transit. Well, I guess that's seven years' bad luck right there."

"What, when Athos finds out we've damaged his property after all you mean?" Porthos grinned, and Aramis laughed.

"What does the letter say?"

Porthos opened it out and frowned. "It's blank," he said, looking at Aramis in bewilderment. "Oh well, I guess it wasn't this one he meant after all."

"We should get back," Aramis said. "Tell Athos you broke his mirror."

"Me!" Porthos dropped the parchment back into the tea chest and followed him outside indignantly.

"You hung it up," Aramis pointed out.

"Yeah, but it was probably your awful driving that weakened it."

"If it was both our faults, is that seven years' bad luck each, or three and a half?" Aramis grinned, as Porthos locked the door behind them. 

"You don't really believe that stuff do you?" Porthos asked uncomfortably.

Aramis shrugged philosophically. "Ask me in seven years."

\--

With the final vanload of stuff delivered, Aramis went back to his hotel for a bath and change of clothes before meeting d'Artagnan for dinner. They'd wanted to give Athos and Porthos a chance to settle in, making promises to meet up the next night for a house-warming drink. 

Facing Aramis across the dining table in the hotel restaurant, d'Artagnan fiddled with his cutlery, trying to pluck up the nerve to ask him something.

"So - Athos says - you can do hypnosis?" he ventured finally.

Aramis looked surprised. "I had some small success with it a while back, yes. I was interested in the medicinal applications - relaxing people before surgery and so on. We're not exactly talking past lives and spirit guides here," he added with a smile.

"He thought - you might be able to make me remember what happened to me?" d'Artagnan asked. "What I was doing for those two days?"

"Help you perhaps. Not make you," Aramis corrected, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "But yes, if you're willing to try?"

"I'll think about it," d'Artagnan said, turning his attention back to his food. 

"What are you afraid that you might find out?" Aramis asked quietly. "That something happened to you? Or that you did something bad?"

D'Artagnan looked up again sharply, then sighed. "I've just got this awful feeling of foreboding," he admitted. "Like there's a storm gathering right behind me."

"We've faced our share of bad weather," Aramis told him. "You know I'm here for you whatever happens, and so are Athos and Porthos. Isn't it better to find out than keep worrying?"

"I guess." D'Artagnan set down his fork and pushed his plate away. "Sorry, I'm not hungry." Feeling guilty, because the hotel was a reasonably expensive one, and Aramis was paying.

"That's alright." Aramis finished his wine and dabbed at his mouth with the napkin, glancing at the clock. "Shall I walk you back, or - ?"

"Or what?"

Aramis gave him a guilty smile. "It's still early. No one would think anything of it if you were to come up to my room for an hour or so?"

\--

"Sorry again about the mirror," Porthos said, watching Athos lift it carefully down off the wall and hang a picture in its place. "I don't know what happened."

They'd eaten supper and were making a desultory attempt to unpack a few things, although both men were tired and felt that bedtime wouldn't be far away.

"Not to worry," Athos sighed patiently for the second time that day, deciding that on the whole two breakages wasn't a bad toll for the day's work.

Porthos was sorting through the books in one of the tea chests, but as he was simply putting them back in again rather than on a shelf, Athos frowned at him. "Are you looking for something?"

"Yeah, there was a piece of paper, I could have sworn I left it in here."

"What paper?" Athos came over to look, and Porthos shrugged. 

"Old bit of parchment. Thought it might have been what you were looking for earlier but it was blank. Guess it doesn't matter."

Athos froze. "Parchment?" he said sharply. "With a wax seal?"

"Yeah."

"Porthos, tell me you didn't open it!"

"Well - yeah," Porthos said uncertainly, taking in Athos' expression with some misgivings. "I didn't think it would matter. I mean it wasn't like I was opening your post or something? It was just blank inside. Sorry, have I done wrong?" he asked miserably.

Athos shook his head, making himself relax again. "No, no I'm sure it's fine. It was blank, you said?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure - " Athos sighed. "I'm sure there's not a problem."

"Athos? What aren't you telling me?"

Athos hesitated. "D'Artagnan wouldn't let me open it, earlier. He seemed worried something would happen, if I did. Something bad, although he couldn't say what." He managed a tight smile. "But he must just have been letting his imagination get the better of him. Two days of lost memories - it must be taking more of a toll on him than he's letting on. And nothing happened, after all."

"No," Porthos agreed. "Well, apart from the mirror."

"The mirror?" Athos looked down at it where it was resting on the floor, splintered and coming loose from the frame. "Wait, are you saying that happened at the same time?"

Porthos nodded. "Practically the second I - " he broke off, staring at Athos in sudden apprehension. "The second I broke the seal," he said numbly. "Athos, what have I done?"

"Nothing. You've done nothing," Athos assured him, rather unconvincingly. "I mean, nothing's actually come of it, has it? Not really. It was just a coincidence, they do happen. We're just jumpy, that's all. And frankly who can blame us?"

"You're sure?" Porthos looked unhappy, and Athos put his arms around him.

"I admit I would be more comfortable if it hadn't disappeared again," Athos said as they embraced each other. "I think we need to find it. I'd have liked a closer look at the seal, there was a design there, under the more recent wax."

"Maybe it's for the best that the bloody thing's gone," Porthos muttered. "Meddling with things like that has never ended well, has it?"

"Says the man who opened it in the first place," Athos teased, and Porthos glowered at him. 

"Well how was I to know? You said you were looking for a letter, you didn't say anything about not opening the damned thing!"

"No, you're right, I'm sorry," Athos sighed. "But to tell you the truth I really didn't think there was anything in it. I took it to be d'Artagnan overreacting, nothing more."

"Then let's hope that's all it was." Porthos bent to pick up the broken mirror, holding it carefully horizontal as the shards slipped against each other. "What shall I do with this? I don't much fancy having it in the house after what you've said."

"Stick it in the yard for now," Athos advised. "We can dispose of it tomorrow." As Porthos carried it into the kitchen he started emptying the box of books, still half-hoping to come across the parchment. 

Distantly aware of Porthos unlocking the back door and the creak of the hinges as he pulled it open after long disuse, Athos jumped to his feet as there was a sudden smash of glass and an agonised yell.

"Porthos? Are you alright? What have you done?" Athos demanded, dashing into the kitchen. Porthos was standing in the outer doorway, clutching his hand.

"Cut myself on the bloody broken glass," he winced.

"Come here, let me see," Athos instructed. "Let me check there's no glass left in there." He fetched his spectacles and pulled Porthos in under the light, carefully inspecting the wound. Porthos had a nasty cut slicing across his left palm, but it wasn't deep and Athos gently cleaned it and bandaged it up before sweeping away the glass from the step.

"Sorry," Porthos said sheepishly, taking a seat on the settee and accepting the glass of brandy Athos handed him. "Only I could break the same mirror twice in one day."

"Twit," Athos told him affectionately, thoroughly relieved it hadn't been worse.

"Maybe we should go to bed before I can do any more damage?" Porthos offered hopefully.

"If you promise not to bleed on my sheets." Athos lifted Porthos' hand and kissed him lightly on the bandage. And then froze, as something occurred to him.

"Athos? What is it?" Porthos asked as Athos stayed motionless, gripping his hand.

"Nothing." Athos shook himself. "Just a coincidence."

"Another one?" Porthos said pointedly. Athos sighed.

"D'Artagnan has a cut in exactly the same place."

Porthos frowned. "Meaning?"

"I have no idea." Athos patted him on the knee. "Like I said, coincidence. Come on, let's go to bed."

They took turns in the bathroom and went up, climbing into bed together and snuggling up for warmth. They'd laid a fire in the grate downstairs but up here was chilly, and they were glad of thick pyjamas.

Determined to make the most of their new privacy they started kissing, but by now both men had also started yawning, and the long day's hard work meant neither of them was really in the mood for anything more physical.

It was Porthos who conceded defeat first. "Would you mind if we just went to sleep?" he asked reluctantly. 

"Not at all." Athos kissed him softly and smiled. "It's nice just to have you here."

"You don't mind? Me staying, I mean?" Porthos had wondered occasionally how much of Athos' reluctance to let him stay overnight had been due to fear of discovery and how much was just Athos wanting to preserve his own space.

"Of course I don't mind." Athos frowned questioningly at him. "That was rather the whole point of this?"

"Just checking." Porthos grinned, gave him a lingering goodnight kiss, then turned over to go to sleep.

Athos turned out the lamp and lay staring at the ceiling in the darkness. He'd had to buy a new bed as his old one belonged to the college, and he found he missed its familiar contours and softness. 

Shifting to try and get comfortable without waking Porthos who was already snoring quietly, Athos' gaze roamed around the room, picking out strange and sinister shapes in the shadows. He tried to rationalise them one by one. A dressing gown on the door, Porthos' bag on the chair, something behind the curtain on the windowsill - Athos tried to remember what he'd put there and couldn't.

He turned onto his side away from the window, shifting closer to Porthos and slipping an arm around his waist, spooning up against the reassuring warmth of his broad back. Eyes now firmly closed, Athos tried to steady his breathing and go to sleep, but the creaks and ticks of a strange house settling around him were making him nervous. 

Just as he was finally sliding into sleep he felt the bed dip at the end, as if a cat or something had leapt up there. The thought finally wormed its way into his sleep-befuddled mind that he didn't own a cat and Athos sat up sharply, fumbling for the light switch.

The lamp clicked on and the room jumped into focus. No cat. No intrusive presences at all. Just Porthos blinking up at him crossly.

"What's wrong?"

Athos sighed. "Nothing. Just me spooking myself. Sorry." He made himself turn the lamp off again and lay down.

"Go to sleep," Porthos muttered.

"If only I could," Athos sighed. 

After a moment Porthos rolled over and wrapped an arm around him, shifting Athos into a more comfortable position for him to curl around and seemingly dropping asleep again in minutes. 

This time Athos didn't mind. Being held in Porthos' arms felt like the safest place in the world, and a whole legion of phantom cats wouldn't disturb him now.

\--

Porthos thrashed his way out of yet another a nightmare, lying panting crossways in the bed, feeling sweaty and dishevelled. He fought his way free of the sheet tangled round his legs and looked for Athos, but he was alone in the bed and the house felt empty.

"Athos?" He padded down the stairs wearing Athos' dressing gown, but found as he'd suspected, that the sitting room and kitchen were deserted. There was a note lying on the occasional table and as Porthos picked it up, he discovered that underneath it was a key.

_Early appointment, didn't like to wake you. I had a key cut for you, make yourself at home. A._

Porthos read it over and over, clutching the key in his right hand. The note was simultaneously as businesslike and vague as Athos himself, but Porthos could feel the unspoken love behind the words. He'd had no idea Athos was going to give him a key, and he wished Athos was there so he could kiss him insensible.

He also wondered what kind of appointment Athos could have this early on a Sunday morning. Possibly he'd gone to church, although that seemed unlikely. Of the four of them, Aramis was the only one who attended anywhere near regularly.

Having washed and breakfasted, Porthos made his way back to his room in the college halls to catch up on some actual studying and generally show his face. It wouldn't do to be absent so much that people started wondering where he was.

The law degree was hard work, and sometimes he felt overwhelmed - not by the dedication required but the fact that nearly all of the other students were younger, richer and better educated than he was. They seemed to effortlessly balance the workload with nights spent drinking, smoking and partying, and more than once he'd considered giving up. 

He'd finally confessed all this to Athos, who'd calmly poured him a drink and promised him that the ones who looked like they were having it all would almost certainly be the ones with a nasty surprise coming when they got their results.

"And the few that do manage to wing it and still pull it off? Well, there's a word for people like them."

"Prodigies?"

"Bastards." 

Athos had waiting until he'd stopped laughing, and then kissed him.

"You don't have to be the best, Porthos. You just have to do _your_ best. For you. No one else." 

Athos' words were going round his head now as he stared blankly at his textbooks, absently scratching at his hand under the bandage. It was all very well being told that he only had himself to please, but Aramis was funding his studies and Athos had got him onto the course in the first place. He couldn't let them down. 

Despite his determination, today the words just weren't going in and he gave up with a sigh. Sleeping so badly these last few months had severely impacted his concentration, and Porthos wondered hopefully how many nights in a row Athos might let him stay. To that end, he packed a bag to see him good for a few nights, shoved in the books he'd need and felt for the key in his pocket like a talisman. 

\--

Porthos turned into the street just in time to find Athos a few paces ahead of him, deep in conversation with Aramis.

"Morning." He jogged up behind them, and when they saw who it was they waited for him to catch up.

"Hello Porthos." Athos gave him his usual shy smile, and Porthos grinned at him. 

"Where've you been then?"

"Aramis and I went to meet with Brother John, he was attending mass at the cathedral this morning," Athos said, as if this wasn't a singularly baffling statement. 

Porthos tried to ignore the spike of jealousy that reared its head at the thought Athos had chosen to go somewhere with Aramis instead of him and shook his head.

"Who?"

"The chap I arranged for d'Artagnan's placement with, in the abbey library," Athos explained. "I wanted to find out if he'd noticed anything odd, and whether d'Artagnan had actually still been around the place for the two days he can't remember."

"And?"

Athos looked troubled. "He was there alright. Apparently locked himself into the library and told them he didn't want to be disturbed. I get the impression he'd been quite rude about it. They sent him food up occasionally, but it mostly returned uneaten."

"So what the hell was he doing in there?" Porthos demanded.

"I wish I knew." Athos hesitated. "I got the impression there was something else as well. Something John wasn't telling us."

"Like what?" 

Athos shrugged. "If I knew that..." He let the thought tail off and let them into the cottage.

Walking in last, Aramis frowned and looked down at the door mat, hearing something crackle underfoot. He bent to lift it up, and Athos looked at him in surprise.

"What _are_ you doing?"

"There's something under here," Aramis explained. "Oh, it's only this." He handed a sheet of paper to Porthos. "Isn't that what you found yesterday?"

Porthos took it gingerly. "Yeah. How the hell did it get under there though?"

"Blown there I guess?" Aramis suggested. Porthos didn't look convinced.

"By what, an indoor tornado? That mat's heavy."

"Lying under the threshold," Athos mused. "I don't like that. Here, let me see." He twitched it out of Porthos' fingers and examined both sides of the parchment with a frown. "This is definitely what got d'Artagnan all worked up. Strange that it's blank though." He carried it over to the window and held it up to the light, but nothing revealed itself. 

"You think there was something there originally?" Porthos asked uneasily, thinking back to the time something else unpleasant had escaped from the pages of a manuscript.

"It's possible."

"You think it's related to what happened to d'Artagnan?" Aramis prompted, when Athos seemed too wrapped up in studying the parchment to elaborate.

"He got very upset when I was going to open it," Athos said distractedly. "Made me promise not to."

Aramis shot a worried glance at Porthos, who nodded meaningfully. "So when we broke the seal - " Aramis sighed. "Great. Here we go again."

"It might be nothing," Athos told him, picking at the wax with his thumbnail. 

"When is it ever nothing?" 

Athos looked up then, and smiled at him. "We've made it this far haven't we? Tell me, I don't suppose you brought a surgical kit with you at all?"

Aramis frowned. "I've got a travelling kit for emergencies, yes. It's back at the hotel though. Why?"

"If I may, I'd like to borrow a scalpel."

\--


	3. Chapter 3

By the time d'Artagnan arrived that evening clutching a bottle of wine as a housewarming present, Athos had managed to tease most of the fresher layer of wax away from the seal, although he'd had to promise to buy Aramis a new scalpel.

"What's he doing?" d'Artagnan asked curiously, handing the bottle to Porthos. Athos had barely looked up as he'd come in, bent studiously over the dining table and having to push his glasses back up his nose every few seconds.

"Investigating your mysterious parchment," Porthos told him, then looked taken aback as d'Artagnan spun round in horror.

"You didn't open it? You promised!" d'Artagnan cried in alarm. 

"I did promise, and I didn't open it," Athos said calmly. "Nevertheless, it was opened. And given that so far nobody's dead or noticeably possessed, I'm going to assume we're not in any immediate danger from it, but it never hurts to have as much information at one's disposal as possible." He looked at d'Artagnan over the top of his glasses. "Unless you've remembered anything about why this particular piece of paper should be so dangerous?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I wish I had asked you to burn it now," he said bitterly. "Who opened it?"

"Does it matter?" Athos sat back and stared at the original seal in puzzlement. It had been split down the middle, presumably when d'Artagnan had first opened the letter, but cleared of the softer, fresher wax the design was now quite legible. "I'm sure I've seen this before somewhere," Athos muttered. "But I can't think where."

Everyone crowded round to have a look. Pressed into the dark red sealing wax was a design of small circles and interconnecting lines that made them all feel strangely uncomfortable.

"Wait, I've seen this recently," d'Artagnan blurted, and they all stared at him.

"Where?" Aramis prompted, when d'Artagnan did nothing more than stand there frozen to the spot, staring at the seal but apparently too afraid to touch it.

"At the monastery," d'Artagnan said finally. "On some stonework. I did a bit of exploring on my first day there, there's a ruined chapel - ahh!" he winced, breaking off and clapping a hand over his eyes.

"What's wrong?" Aramis asked in concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," d'Artagnan managed, blinking rapidly. "Just a splitting headache, that's all. Guess I've been working too hard."

Athos snorted, and Aramis gave him a reproachful look. "Leave him alone, he's been through a lot lately." He slipped an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and guided him to the couch. "Here, sit down. Have you got any aspirin?" he asked Athos, who nodded.

"In the bathroom. I'll fetch it." He got up and went out, cudgelling his brain to try and recall where he'd seen the design on the seal before. 

Hunting through the small corner cupboard, Athos wished he'd been rather more organised about unpacking instead of just shoving everything in haphazardly. Finally spotting the battered cardboard packet of aspirin, Athos had just reached out for it when he felt something winding insistently round his ankles.

His first instinct was to smile. He liked cats, and there were several that lurked around the university, frequently leaping in at his open window in search of titbits or a warm lap. But he wasn't in his old rooms any more, and there was no cat here.

After a tense, frozen second Athos made himself look down, but there was nothing to see. He sighed, closing the cupboard door and wondering if he was starting to imagine things. Either that or he was being haunted by a cat. He remembered the sensation of something jumping on the bed in the night, and frowned. At least a ghost cat was relatively harmless he thought. Better than, say, an invisible squid monster in the bath or snakes in the bed.

Halfway out of the door Athos suddenly remembered where he'd seen the seal before and started to run.

\-- 

"Athos?" Porthos started at him in consternation as Athos hurtled back into the room, tossed the packet of aspirin at d'Artagnan so carelessly he had to duck and leaned over the table again to stare at the seal.

"I know where I've seen this before," Athos said hoarsely. "I know what this is."

"What?" Porthos demanded, concerned about how pale he'd gone. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Athos gave him a shaky smile. "Not far from the truth." Rather than elaborate, he strode over to the bookshelves and scanned them for the volume he needed, wishing for the second time in almost as many minutes that he'd taken the time to put things in order when he'd unpacked.

"Here." He pulled one out triumphantly and slammed it on the table.

"That's one of my uncle's books?" Aramis said curiously. When he'd sold off the house and its contents he'd promised Athos could have first pick of the library, and he'd accepted eagerly.

"Yes." Athos was flicking through it anxiously until he came to the page he wanted. The page he remembered. He compared the illustration to the design on the seal, and sat back with a groan. "I hate being right."

"Good thing it doesn't happen often then," said Aramis cheerfully, and punched him on the shoulder. "Go on then, give us the bad news. I'm assuming it is bad news?"

"Very." Athos sighed, pushing the book forward so they could see. "It's the seal of Malphas."

"As in - Prince of Hell Malphas?" Porthos asked in alarm.

"What, as opposed to greengrocer Malphas?" Athos drawled. "Yes Porthos, Prince of Hell Malphas, demonic overlord, mind reader, master of lies and bestower of really _lethal_ familiars." He controlled himself with a visible effort. "I may not be exaggerating when I say we are possibly in very deep shit."

A stunned silence met his words. Porthos dropped shakily into the chair next to Athos, looking haggard. "What have I done?" he asked in a low voice.

Athos shook his head, glancing up at d'Artagnan. "I think a more relevant question is what did _you_ do?" he asked.

D'Artagnan glared at him. "Who says I did anything? I don't remember, okay? Who says I didn't spend those two days trying to stop this thing? I sealed the damn letter up again didn't I?"

"I don't know, and neither do you," Athos pointed out. 

"But you'd rather just assume I fucked up and let something out in the first place?" d'Artagnan said accusingly, sounding like he was close to angry tears. "I presume from what he says it was Porthos who opened it up again, but oh no, you're never going to blame him are you?"

"That's enough," said Athos sharply. "This isn't getting us anywhere.

"Nobody's blaming anybody," Aramis said calmingly, rubbing d'Artagnan's shoulder. "We don't even know there's an actual threat. What proof have we got that anything untoward is going on, other than your amnesia?"

"The mirror?" Porthos reminded him. 

"And the cuts," Athos added. "Both d'Artagnan and Porthos have got cuts across their palm, in the same place," he explained to Aramis.

"That still doesn't prove anything," Aramis pointed out. "Although in that case I'd be more careful with that scalpel," he added, picking it up from where it still lay on the table. "I'll take that, I think."

Athos closed the book again, drumming his fingers on the cover for a moment before pushing his chair back sharply and getting to his feet. 

"Where are you off to?" Porthos asked in surprise, as Athos headed for the kitchen without a word.

"To fetch the corkscrew," Athos retorted. "I can't speak for anyone else, but I for one need a drink."

\--

With the wine shared out between them, harmony was somewhat restored. For a while conversation was kept to safely neutral topics, but then d'Artagnan sat up with a sigh and set his shoulders.

"Aramis, if you're serious about being able to get my memories back, then I think you should try," he said. "Because you're right, there's no point speculating. If I did do something - if any of us is in danger - then we need to know."

As Aramis settled d'Artagnan into a relaxed position on the couch, Porthos drew Athos to one side. "Are we sure putting him into a suggestible state's a good idea right now?" he asked quietly. 

"I'm not sure we have a choice," said Athos reluctantly. "Best case scenario, it turns out d'Artagnan's just been overworking and worrying about his finals, and had a small breakdown."

"And worst case?"

Athos just looked at him and Porthos groaned. "I don't think I can go through this again," he said miserably. 

"Brave heart, Porthos," Athos murmured, squeezing his arm. "It'll be alright."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I refuse to entertain the alternatives." Grimly, Athos turned back to where d'Artagnan was now reclining on the settee, with Aramis perched on a stool beside him. 

"Don't you need a gold watch or something?" d'Artagnan asked lightly, trying to laugh through badly concealed nerves.

Aramis smiled down at him. "I'm just going to help you relax, that's all. I'm a surgeon, not a conjuror."

"Although if you do wake up with the urge to buy us all dinner that's entirely natural," Porthos called over, and Aramis frowned at him.

"Not helping Porthos. Could you turn the lights down? Just that lamp on should be enough."

By the light of a single lamp and the flickering fire, Athos and Porthos quietly seated themselves in the pair of wing-back armchairs, out of d'Artagnan's line of sight.

"Comfortable?" Aramis checked, and d'Artagnan nodded. "Good. Now I want you to concentrate on the sound of my voice," Aramis continued. "And when you feel the need to close your eyes, that's fine. Don't fight it. You're perfectly safe, and with people you trust, people who want to help you. Let me help you d'Artagnan. And now I want you to breathe with me, can you do that? Breathe in, and slowly out again. In, and out again. In, and out again. Imagine you're an ocean, and your breathing is the tide upon the shore, washing in, and out. In, and out. And you're floating on that ocean now, you're feeling weightless and calm. The sun is warm, and you're feeling safe, and peaceful, and now you're starting to feel sleepy." 

Aramis' voice was low and steady and comforting, and across the room Porthos found himself yawning. He blinked in surprise, and Athos reached over to quietly take his hand.

"Your eyelids are feeling heavy, and now you're settling down into a feather bed. Sinking into sleep, sinking into softness. You're completely relaxed, and completely safe, and you're breathing deeply and easily." 

When he'd been talking for some time, Aramis considered d'Artagnan's bonelessly relaxed form and his steady breathing, and nodded to himself with quiet satisfaction.

"Now we're going to take you back to the events of last week," Aramis continued, still in the same slow, quiet tone. "And you're going to remember what you did on Wednesday and Thursday, and you're going to walk us through what happened. And you will feel completely safe in remembering, and you will continue to remember everything that happened when you wake up."

He paused, licking his lips and smoothing his moustache, wondering what they might be about to hear. 

"Now you are standing on a staircase. There are five steps in front of you. And at the top of the steps is a door. When you go through the door, you will be back in the abbey library, on Wednesday morning. And you will remember what happened. Are you ready to go up those steps, d'Artagnan?"

There was a moment's pause. "Yes," d'Artagnan murmured, his eyes closed, lashes feathered dark against his cheek. Aramis smiled down at him. 

"Then we're going to go up those steps together. And I want you to know you can go back down them at any time," Aramis told him quietly. "If you feel unsafe, or afraid, or uncomfortable, the door will always be there, and you can always walk back through it, do you understand?"

"Yes." 

"Then up we go. One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

On the count of five d'Artagnan's eyes flew open and he stared blankly and fixedly ahead of him. Athos and Porthos sat up and leaned forward, careful not to make a noise.

"D'Artagnan? Can you still hear me?" Aramis asked softly.

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the library."

"What day is it?"

D'Artagnan frowned. "Wednesday. Morning."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm thinking about you."

Aramis hid a surprised smile. "About me?"

"I'm coming to see you. I'm thinking about you and that I'll see you in a few hours, and I'm thinking about what you'll do to me."

Aramis stifled a cough. "And are you doing anything else, while you're daydreaming?" he prompted hastily, praying that the answer wasn't anything likely to get them all excommunicated.

"I'm supposed to be cataloguing letters," d'Artagnan said distantly. "I thought I'd finished but there's one more. I didn't see it before. It's not like the others, it's older. And still sealed."

"Do you open it?" 

D'Artagnan paused again, a frown furrowing his brow. "It wants me to," he said finally, the words sticking in his throat. "I can feel it. It wants me to open it. It's been waiting, for so long."

"For you?"

"For anyone. But it's pleased, that it's me. It knows me."

"How can a piece of paper know you?"

"I don't know!" D'Artagnan's voice rose in protest, and Aramis murmured soothingly to him until he was calmer.

"It doesn't feel like the others," d'Artagnan said hoarsely. "The rest of the papers are dry and whispery and smell of dust. This one is - warm. It feels like - " 

"What does it feel like, d'Artagnan?" Aramis coaxed, when he was silent for a moment. 

"Skin." He shuddered. "I don't mean just parchment. Living skin. And it smells."

"What does it smell of?"

"Bad. Like something died. I don't want to open it, but I can't stop myself." D'Artagnan was breathing hard now, and Aramis hesitated, wondering if he should bring him out of it. He glanced at Athos, who shook his head.

"Ask him if there was originally anything inside," Athos called quietly. Before Aramis could repeat the question, d'Artagnan twisted convulsively, as if trying to get away from something.

"There's writing. I don't recognise the language - not even the alphabet. It looks wrong, somehow. Like it's not quite flat on the page. And I don't know what the words mean, but somehow they're in my head, and I know I can say them." D'Artagnan fell quiet again, pinching his lips together, as if he'd already said too much.

"Do you read them out?" Aramis asked. "It's alright to tell us. You're quite safe now."

"We hope," muttered Porthos, and Athos frowned at him warningly.

"Yes." It was barely louder than a breath. 

"What happens when you read the words?" Athos had come to stand at Aramis' shoulder, keeping his question in the same calm, level tone Aramis had been using.

"They vanish."

Athos frowned. "From the page?"

"Yes. As I say them. It's like they're - inside my head now. Behind my eyes. Wriggling into my brain." D'Artagnan thrashed his head to and fro in distress and Aramis waved Athos back to his seat irritably.

"It's alright," he told d'Artagnan. "Remember the door. You can leave if you need to. You're not trapped in this memory, nothing here can hurt you."

D'Artagnan calmed a little. 

"What happens then?" Aramis asked him. "Are the words some kind of spell?"

"A summoning." 

Aramis couldn't help glancing over at Athos and Porthos in alarm.

"What did you summon?"

"It's not enough." D'Artagnan was panting now, as if he'd been running. Or was terrified, Aramis realised. 

"What's not enough?"

"The words. It needs more. It needs blood. To bind the pact."

Porthos glanced at the healing cut across his hand, and shuddered. "Do you give it blood?" Aramis was asking, and Porthos wondered how the hell he could keep so calm. But then, it wasn't him that had broken either of the seals, was it.

"Yes. There's a letter opener I've been using. I use it on myself," d'Artagnan said, and the matter-of-fact way he said it made all three of them exchange uneasy glances.

"Do you know what you're summoning?" This was Athos again, and Aramis shot him a cross look. 

"I am but the gateway," d'Artagnan said, his voice suddenly ringing hollow. "One of the four pillars of the unholy temple. Through my blood He will be reborn and through my service He will return to wreak chaos in the world."

"I'm bringing him out," Aramis said. "I don't like this."

"No, wait," Athos ordered, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Who is it trying to come through, d'Artagnan? Is it Malphas? One of his servants? Tell me."

D'Artagnan turned his head sharply and Athos took a startled step backwards, because the eyes suddenly fixed on him were a pure malevolent black.

"Athos? What is it?" Porthos was at his side in an instant, but d'Artagnan's eyes were back to their normal warm brown, unfocussed and distant.

"Nothing," Athos muttered. "Trick of the light, that's all."

"D'Artagnan, I want you to come back out through the door for me," Aramis said. "Can you do that? Step back through the door, and down the five steps, and I'm going to count them backwards with you. And when I get to the end you will be back in the room with us, and - " he hesitated. "And you will remember everything." 

"I'm on the steps," d'Artagnan mumbled obediently.

"Good. Well done. Now we're going to walk down them. Five. Four. Three. Two. One." Aramis snapped his fingers on the one and d'Artagnan sat bolt upright with a gasping breath.

"It's alright. It's alright, you're safe." Aramis shifted to sit on the settee next to him and gathered him into his arms. "I've got you."

Athos fetched the brandy and poured a glass for d'Artagnan, then on second thoughts poured them all some. 

Porthos went round relighting all the lamps until the room was as bright as day, and they all felt slightly more comfortable.

"What have I done?" d'Artagnan said miserably, looking up at Athos as if expecting condemnation.

"Other than get tricked into reading out a nasty little summoning spell?" Athos sighed. "Good question."

"What do you mean?" Aramis asked indignantly.

"I mean what d'Artagnan described wouldn't have filled two days. Do you remember anything else?" he asked, and d'Artagnan shook his head convulsively. 

"And I don't want to." He drained his brandy glass and coughed. "It was horrible enough recalling that. I can still remember the way it felt, the words all squirming into my head." 

"There weren't any words when I opened it," Porthos pointed out, suddenly glad that he'd had Aramis as a witness. "And the cut on my hand was an accident, not deliberate."

"You know what worries me the most?" Athos sighed, and they all looked at him in varying degrees of incredulity.

"Other than some hell-beast trying to use d'Artagnan as a bus ticket you mean?" Aramis asked.

"Yes, exactly, that's just it. I don't see any marauding demons in the street, do you?" Athos asked. "So it can't have worked. Sorcery - occultism - whatever - it's all in the intent. You can trick somebody into reading the words but if they don't mean them it's hardly going to tear a hole in reality, no matter what the more lurid novelists say. At best it would pick at the stitches. Loosen up the seams a little maybe."

"Then what was the point?" Porthos asked. 

"It would take more than a few drops of blood and a parroted invocation," Athos mused. "The thing that worries me? D'Artagnan's claim to be one of four pillars." 

"There's four of us," Porthos said uncomfortably, knowing he was stating the obvious.

"Exactly." Athos stared at the brandy bottle then sighed and uncorked it again.

"Getting drunk's not going to help," Aramis said sharply.

"Then do tell me what is," Athos drawled. "Because frankly if the world's going to end, I for one would quite like to be disgustingly drunk at the time."

"We need to go there," Aramis said.

"Well at least hell's probably warmer than here, this time of year," Athos conceded, waving his glass, and Aramis frowned at him. 

"Not hell you idiot. The abbey. Much as it pains me to say it, you're right, there's still most of the two days unaccounted for. And d'Artagnan remembers seeing the seal there too, right? We need to find out what else happened. Maybe Brother John can tell us more, if we push him?"

"I'm in," Porthos said. "If I'm down as one of the four pillars of the bleeding apocalypse, I'm not going to just roll over and let it happen." He glared down at Athos. "Are you?" 

\--

Aramis and d'Artagnan walked back through the darkened streets together, arm in arm. It had been agreed that the following day Aramis would hire a car and drive them all out to the monastery, although not until the afternoon. To Aramis' exasperation, Athos had pointed out he had a seminar group to take in the morning, and d'Artagnan and Porthos both had lectures. The only thing worse than the wrath of hell, Athos had said dryly, was the wrath of the university, and therefore everything else would have to wait.

"You're very quiet," Aramis said eventually, as they passed the high wall of the park, wading through its shadow. "It'll be alright, you know."

"Will it?" D'Artagnan sighed. "And what if it isn't? It'll all be my fault. If something happened to you - to any of you - I'd never forgive myself."

"Hey." Aramis stopped walking and pulled d'Artagnan to him. "Nobody blames you, okay? We all know how horribly easy it can be when you're not on your guard, to fall under the influence of something like this. We've all been there. Even Athos admitted you were tricked into reading that thing."

"Was I?" D'Artagnan asked bleakly. "Or was I just being nosy? Was it my just my stupid curiosity, that said 'well, what's the worst that can happen'?"

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity," Aramis smiled, and d'Artagnan snorted. 

"Curiosity killed the cat, remember?"

"And satisfaction brought it back," Aramis quoted. "Maybe what you need is a bit of satisfaction."

D'Artagnan laughed despite himself. "Are you offering?"

"Sadly at this time of night I don't think the hotel would look too kindly on me smuggling a young man into my room," Aramis said regretfully.

"Who needs a hotel room?" D'Artagnan took him by the hand and lead him deeper into the shadow of the wall, beneath the overhang of the ivy.

Aramis laughed but didn't object as d'Artagnan started kissing him. He only yelped a protest when hands started unbuttoning his trousers.

"What are you doing?" he hissed in scandalised amusement. "You'll get us arrested."

"Who's going to see?" d'Artagnan pointed out. "It's gone midnight, there's no one around." Working his hand into Aramis' underwear, his mouth curling into a triumphant smile at the discovery Aramis was already hard.

Fortunately the stretch of road was not overlooked, the park on one side, the blank side wall of a warehouse on the other, but they were still out in public and even Aramis had misgivings about being quite so blatant.

D'Artagnan was insistent though, and his hand very persuasive. It didn't take long before Aramis gave a groan of surrender and pushed d'Artagnan back against the wall, fumbling with his belt. There was certainly a kick to it, exposing themselves to the night air and taking each other firmly in hand, kissing roughly as they jerked each other towards climax.

Aramis had the faintly guilty thought that if they _were_ caught by a passing policeman Athos would hold him entirely accountable for getting d'Artagnan arrested, regardless of who had instigated it. They were certainly too far gone to stop now though, turned on by the transgressive thrill of it all as much as the touch of each other's hand.

 _"God."_ Aramis swore through gritted teeth, trying to stay quiet as he came, and hastily cupping a hand over his cock, trying to contain the mess. D'Artagnan showed no such restraint, and promptly lost his load all over Aramis' coat.

"Oh for - d'Artagnan! What do you want to go and do that for you mucky little devil?" Aramis hissed. 

"Sorry." D'Artagnan slumped back against the wall grinning breathlessly, and not sounding sorry in the least. "I couldn't hold it."

"Really? Or could you just not be bothered with a little self-control?" Aramis muttered, fastening his trousers and then shoving his hand into his coat pocket in search of his handkerchief. "Ow! Fuck." 

"Aramis? What's wrong?" D'Artagnan pushed himself away from the wall in sudden concern. Even in the poor light he could see Aramis was bleeding. "Jesus, what happened?"

Wincing, Aramis investigated his pocket more gingerly, and drew out a glittering scalpel. Unsheathed, it had sliced him neatly across the palm.

"What the hell were you carrying that in your pocket for?" 

"I wasn't," Aramis said, sounding bewildered. "I could have sworn I put it in my bag."

"Here, let me see that." D'Artagnan pulled out his own handkerchief and tied it tightly around Aramis' hand. "That should do until you can see to it properly. Do you think you should see a doctor?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously.

"I am a doctor," Aramis pointed out with a pained laugh. "No, it's only shallow, I'll be fine." D'Artagnan looked pale, and Aramis gave him a hug. "Hey, come on. It's hardly a mortal wound. It's no worse than yours."

"It's just like mine in fact," d'Artagnan muttered. "That's exactly what worries me."

\-- 

When Aramis and d'Artagnan had left for the night, Athos and Porthos had locked the door and washed up the dirty glasses, saying little to each other. The things d'Artagnan had revealed under hypnosis had raised more questions than they answered, and both wondered what the next day would bring.

Porthos went up to bed first, leaving the bathroom free for Athos. When he came out, towelling his face dry, Athos tripped over something in the doorway and looked round crossly but there was nothing there.

"Hey! Cut that out." There was no answer, and Athos felt silly. "Talking to yourself, first sign of madness," he muttered, then felt something unmistakeably brush past his leg.

Athos frowned. As supernatural manifestations went, somehow this lacked the threat of previous encounters. 

Telling himself he was barmy, Athos poured out a saucer of milk and set it carefully down on the kitchen floor. He watched it closely for a minute or so, but nothing happened and he sighed.

"Barmy," he repeated. "Quite barmy." Athos turned off the light and walked back into the sitting room, and then heard the sound of lapping behind him. He froze. There came the sound of clinking china, as if a saucer was rocking slightly on the stone flags.

Quietly, he turned around and crept back to the doorway, inching around the jamb and suddenly flicking the light back on.

The room was empty, and he sighed. And then noticed that the saucer had been licked quite clean.

"What would you say if I told you I think we've got a ghost cat?" said Athos, climbing into bed beside Porthos a few minutes later.

"That's nice," Porthos muttered, half asleep and not really listening. Athos smiled. 

"Yeah," he said softly. "That's what I thought."

\--


	4. Chapter 4

Porthos was dreaming. He vaguely knew he was dreaming, but it didn't help because he couldn't manage to wake himself up. He was tied to a pillar in some kind of crypt or cellar and there was water rising around his legs. He wanted to look down, but his neck wouldn't obey him. All too soon, he knew, the water would reach his mouth. 

This is a dream, he told himself desperately. You won't die.

No, he realised. You won't die. It will be drowning without end, agony with no hope of release.

There were _things_ in the water, too. Porthos could feel them sometimes, squirming past his legs. As soon as the water reached his mouth - so would they.

\--

"Porthos. Porthos!" 

He opened his eyes, breath screaming in his throat. It took a second for the room to swim into focus, the cream-painted ceiling with its dark oak cross-beam, and Athos bending over him in the lamplight, looking sleep-crumpled and concerned.

"Porthos? It's okay. It's okay. It was just a dream." Athos sounded relieved that he was awake, and Porthos wondered distantly if he'd been shouting in his sleep. He couldn't form the words to ask, but Athos just pulled him into his arms and hugged him close.

Porthos clung to him, ashamed of showing such weakness but needing the reassuring strength of Athos' arms around him more than anything in the world right now.

"Sorry," he croaked eventually. "I woke you."

"Shhh." Athos kissed him. "It's alright. I'm glad."

They held each other tightly for a long time, until Porthos' breathing finally evened out, and he relaxed by inches.

"Do you think I'm cursed?" he asked sadly.

Athos frowned, rolling onto his side to study him and caressing his cheek.

"Cursed? No," he said softly. "But I'm starting to think these dreams aren't entirely natural. Perhaps you're just - marked. Perhaps we all are."

"What do you mean, marked?" Porthos asked him apprehensively. 

"We defeated Malphas' attempt to come through once before, who's to say he doesn't bear a grudge?" Athos sighed. "D'Artagnan mentioned a sense of recognition, when he found the paper, yes? Maybe that and your nightmares are part of the same thing. I imagine a Prince of Hell can cast a long shadow."

"You're not marked though," Porthos said, rubbing at the healing scar on his hand.

"You're taking it too literally." Athos hesitated, then got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Porthos asked in surprise.

"I want to show you something." A minute later Athos was back, holding a picture frame in his hand. "Look. I thought at first it was the chemicals reacting with the light, but - I'm not so sure any more."

Porthos looked down at the photograph Athos had handed him. It was the family group, and he stared in surprise. The clouded bloom that had started to obscure the head of Athos' father had spread like a water stain until all three members of Athos' family were hidden from view. Only the young Athos remained visible, staring out at the world in shades of worried looking sepia.

"It's just got wet or something," Porthos ventured, but Athos shook his head.

"No it hasn't. And why am I the only one left? The others in that picture are all dead, Porthos. What happens when I disappear too?"

Porthos shivered, and set the frame aside, taking Athos back into his arms. 

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he said fiercely. "I won't let it."

They kissed each other, but there was an air of desperation about it. 

"I love you," Porthos breathed. Athos smiled sadly. 

"I love you too. With all my heart. And I know we have to do this, we have to finish this, it's the only way I think, there will be peace for any of us. But I'm scared of what it will mean. Of what the cost might be. I am so scared by the thought of ever losing you," he whispered.

"You're not going to lose me Athos," Porthos promised, squeezing him comfortingly. "And I'm not going to lose you. We beat this thing once before, we can do it again."

"I hope you're right," Athos sighed. "God I hope you're right."

\--

They both slept late the next morning, and had to leave the house in an undignified scramble to make it to their respective sessions on time. This at least had the effect that neither of them had pause to dwell on the night's worries, and they reconvened at the cottage after lunch with a fresh determination to see this through.

Aramis and d'Artagnan arrived a few minutes behind them, and d'Artagnan immediately disappeared into the kitchen to encourage Porthos to make a pot of tea, whilst Athos hung up their coats.

"If I ask what happened, am I going to regret it?" Athos asked wryly, looking at the bandage wrapped around Aramis' hand.

Aramis looked sheepish. "The scalpel found its way into my pocket," he admitted.

Athos raised a reproachful eyebrow. "And after you warned me to be careful with it," he murmured.

"I didn't put it there!" Aramis hissed indignantly. "I distinctly remember carefully wrapping it up and putting it in my bag."

Athos frowned. "Who did then? D'Artagnan?"

Aramis sighed. "I really don't want to think that."

"He did hand you your coat last night."

"I know. But as soon as we start pointing fingers at each other, we've already lost," Aramis said in a low voice. "If it was d'Artagnan - well it wasn't _him_ , if you see what I'm saying?"

Athos nodded. "Agreed," he conceded. "But I think we need to keep an eye on him." Remembering the way d'Artagnan's eyes had seemed to gleam inky black for a second, and suppressing a shudder.

"And you need to keep an eye on me and Porthos," Aramis advised quietly, holding up his bandaged palm to illustrate the point. "And be careful, Athos. God alone knows what'll happen if all of us are blooded."

\--

They arrived at the monastery of St George and All Angels just after three, in a rainstorm. They scuttled from the car to the shelter of the gatehouse, where they were welcomed by a man with a monk's tonsure but a distinctly military moustache.

"Athos. I didn't expect to see you again so soon." He held out his hand and Athos shook it. 

"Thank you for granting our request to pay a visit, captain."

The moustache bristled with what might have been amusement. "It's just brother, these days. As well you know."

Athos smiled. "Sorry. Hard habit to break." He took in Brother John's robe, and winced. "No pun intended." 

"You two know each other?" Porthos broke in, curious. He hadn't realised Athos' connection with the man had been anything more than an academic association.

"Athos served under me during the war," Brother John confirmed, looking Porthos over with a keen eye. "The others I've met, but I don't believe we've been introduced?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," Athos said, looking embarrassed. "This is Porthos du Vallon, my - er - our - a friend," he finished awkwardly, wishing fervently that he'd thought the sentence through before he'd started it. 

"Well any friend of yours is welcome here." Porthos shook the hand offered him, glad that no further details were pushed for, and that his friendship with the others had been accepted without question.

They were shown into a warm visitors' chamber, and gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. 

"So what can we do for you?" Brother John asked Athos, settling opposite them onto a bench. "Is young d'Artagnan here coming back to work on more of our uncatalogued archive? There's plenty of it."

"Possibly," Athos said guardedly. "First though we'd like to ask you a few questions, if we may? They might seem slightly - odd."

This got a frown, then a shrug. "Ask away."

"Has anything - strange - happened here recently?"

"What do you call strange?"

"What do you?" Athos countered. "Anything out of the ordinary. That you might perhaps not have wanted to tell anyone else."

Shrewd eyes considered him for a long while before answering. "There have been certain - occurrences. Although I'm not sure they won't make me sound delusional."

"Trust me, I think you'll find we're inclined believe you," Athos assured him. "What sort of occurrences?"

"Lights, in the grounds. At night. Lights where there shouldn't rightly be lights. Is that the sort of thing you mean?"

"Could be." Athos had been expecting something more connected with d'Artagnan's missing days, but this sounded equally worrying. "What kind of lights? And where?"

"There's an old chapel. Mostly a ruin now, but you can just see it from some of the higher windows. I happened to be up there a couple of nights ago - it looked like someone was out there, with a lantern. More than one person, in fact."

"Did you go out to see?"

"In the middle of the night? I'd have broken my neck, the ground's a mess of tree roots out there. No. I asked around the next morning, but nobody knew anything. I assumed it was just trespassers."

"But - ?" Athos prompted. 

"But they were there again, the following night. I suppose I should have called the police, except there didn't appear to be any damage done, in daylight. I thought it might have been poachers."

"Wouldn't trespassers on holy ground be considerable cause for concern?" Aramis asked.

"On holy ground, yes, but the area of the chapel has been deconsecrated."

Aramis looked surprised. "Is that normal, when a chapel passes out of use?"

"Not usually, no. I understand there was some kind of trouble."

"What sort of trouble?" Porthos asked suspiciously.

"I couldn't say. We are talking several hundred years ago, you understand. The history books are rather vague on the subject."

"Would you mind if we took a look out there?" Athos asked, glancing out of the window. "The rain seems to have eased off for now, we may not get another chance."

"Of course." Brother John got to his feet and waited patiently as they all pulled their coats on again. "I'm curious as to what you think you'll find?"

Athos frowned. "You and me both." 

\--

"You know, I always imagined I'd end up in a place like this," Aramis said conversationally, as the four of them walked across the wet grass.

"You were going to be a monk?" d'Artagnan asked curiously.

"Well, a priest," Aramis nodded. "I wanted to be ordained."

"What happened?"

Aramis sighed regretfully. "The war," he said. "So much pointless bloodshed."

D'Artagnan nodded sympathetically. "Did you lose your faith?" 

Aramis looked over at him in surprise, then smiled. "No. But it occurred to me I could be doing something more useful than just praying for it all to stop. So I abandoned my theology degree and became a surgeon instead. They were happy to have me. There was plenty of on the job training, after all," he added with grim humour.

"I wanted to join up, so badly," d'Artagnan said. "But I was only eleven, and my mother wouldn't let me," he added sheepishly and Aramis gave a splutter of laughter. 

"I'm not surprised."

"Well, my father and brother had gone," d'Artagnan said indignantly, then looked sombre. "But neither of them came back. I think that's what killed her, in the end."

Aramis rubbed his shoulder, and d'Artagnan gave him a grateful smile. "What about you, Athos?" he ventured. He knew Athos and Aramis had been at university together, so must have faced much the same dilemmas and pressures.

"I stayed on to complete the year," Athos said. "I needed that degree," he added a little defensively. "I knew it would be all I had to make my way in the world with, afterwards."

"You enlisted after you graduated then?" d'Artagnan persisted. Athos never talked about the war, and he was intensely curious.

"I was recruited, actually," Athos said, and d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise. 

"By Brother John back there?" he guessed.

"Well, he was Captain Jean de Treville back then. But yes."

"So? What did you do?"

"Nothing that would interest you," Athos muttered. "Can we change the subject?"

"Athos spent the war in a bunker in Kent," Aramis chipped in cheerfully. "And he hates talking about it, because he thinks he should have been at the Front getting his legs blown off in a show of solidarity with everyone else."

Athos stopped walking and glared at him. Aramis grinned. "The war's over Athos, whatever you signed, the chances are it's okay to talk about it now."

"What were you doing in a bunker?" Porthos asked with interest. Athos had never discussed what he'd done in the war with him either, this was the first he'd heard of it.

"Cryptography," Athos sighed, after a final pointed glare at Aramis.

"Code breaking?"

"And setting," Athos conceded. "I'd just graduated with a degree that covered Old Norse, Old English and Latin. They seemed to think I might be useful."

"Are were you?"

Athos smiled slightly. "That's the part I really can't talk about."

"More use than you would have been getting blown to pieces for your troubles," Aramis pointed out, and Athos sighed.

"I just can't help feeling it was somehow a cowardly choice," he admitted. "I was reasonably safe, while so many other people died."

"And the work you did probably saved far more lives than you could ever have done from behind a bayonet," Aramis retorted. "Stop beating yourself up about it."

"What about you, Porthos?" Athos asked, trying to deflect the attention. "What did you get up to in the war, as everyone seems so nosy all of a sudden?"

"Bomb disposal, mostly," Porthos muttered, and everyone stopped walking again to look at him in surprise.

"Crikey," said d'Artagnan, sounding impressed, and Porthos flushed.

"I mean - not the technical bits. I was just the poor bastard they sent down with a spade to dig the things out enough for the chap with the stripes to come along behind and do the tricky part." He paused, remembering. "They reckoned I was the most disposable one, you see," he said. 

"Oh Jesus," said Athos softly.

Porthos looked at him and gave him a crooked smile. "Every hole I went down, I thought it might be me last," he confessed. "I reckon that's why I don't much care for enclosed spaces any more."

To everyone's surprise, including Porthos', Athos walked over to him and put his arms around him. Athos was notorious for being reluctant to show any kind of public affection, even in relative privacy in front of Aramis and d'Artagnan, and Porthos hugged him back warmly, appreciating the significance of it.

"Come on you," he murmured, rubbing Athos' back. "Not in front of the monks, eh?"

Athos drew back with an embarrassed laugh, but Porthos caught his eye and gave him a subtle nod of recognition and gratitude.

They had almost reached the old chapel now, and could see old grey stonework protruding like broken teeth from the trees. It proved to be set in a natural dip in the ground, and they had to struggle through a line of bushes to reach the perimeter.

D'Artagnan pushed ahead, eager to show them the way and something sprang back from his passing and whipped towards Athos who was following in his footsteps.

"Athos look out!" Aramis shouted a warning just in time and Athos threw up a hand to protect his eyes, catching hold of the wickedly spiked length in his left hand and staring at it in shock.

He'd thought at first it was a bramble, but it proved to be a nasty strand of barbed wire.

"Nice catch," murmured Aramis.

"Nice gloves," added Porthos. Athos was wearing black leather gloves, and as he carefully unpicked the wire from the leather and stepped past it, he gave Porthos a knowing smile.

"It always pays to take appropriate precautions," he murmured.

"This wasn't here before," d'Artagnan announced, tracing the line of barbed wire off into the hedge line.

"Somebody wants to keep us out," Porthos guessed.

"Interesting," Athos mused. "Demons aren't exactly known for needing to use barbed wire," he elaborated, when they all looked at him expectantly. "Porthos is right, there's somebody else involved here."

"Maybe we need another little word with your Brother Treville back there," Aramis muttered. "I still don't think he's told us all he knows."

"Still, we've made it this far," Athos said judiciously. "Let's see what there is to see in the chapel first." With that, he strode down the slope and in beneath the crumbling stone arches.

The others followed Athos into the chapel space, looking cautiously around them. Uneven stone flags, part covered in moss, the remains of an altar, broken columns and arches. It seemed peaceful. Too peaceful, perhaps.

"Do you hear that?" Athos murmured.

Porthos listened, then shook his head, puzzled. "No?"

"Exactly. You can't hear the birds." Outside, the trees had been full of them, singing and twittering and full of the joys of approaching spring. In here though, the air seemed deadened and silent.

"Here's the sigil," d'Artagnan called, and they all trooped over to look. Sure enough, etched into one of the large stone floor slabs was the same design they'd seen on the seal.

"Who decorates a chapel with the sign of a demonic prince?" Aramis wondered.

"Someone who probably got what was coming to them," Athos muttered. "I don't imagine it ended well. Especially if they tore the place down afterwards. If it didn't fall down." 

"Did you clear this?" Porthos asked d'Artagnan, who frowned. 

"No? What do you mean?"

"Most of the other slabs are all mossy and stuff. Looks like someone's had a scrape at some of them, but this is the only one that's been cleaned right up."

"You're right." Athos was scanning the ground curiously. "They must have been looking for this one slab."

"It was like this when I found it," d'Artagnan said defensively. "I guess I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise."

"What do you think's down there?" Aramis asked, sounding like he didn't want to know. They looked at him enquiringly, and he pointed at the edges. "Someone's had a crowbar to that, look the stone's all scratched and chipped."

"Something buried?" Athos guessed. "Or could be a crypt of some kind I suppose."

Porthos immediately took a step backwards. "No way am I going down into any crypt."

Athos shook his head. "No one's going to make you, I promise."

Large, fat drops of rain started to fall again then, slowly pattering onto the wet stones, and everybody groaned.

"Well we might as well go back," Athos sighed. "I don't think there's anything else to see here."

"Planning on coming back with a crowbar?" Aramis guessed, and Athos conceded a nod.

"Possibly. But I also think you're right, we need to talk to Treville again. We need to know more about the history of this place."

\--

By the time they reached the main buildings they were all thoroughly soaked, and Brother Treville lead them back to the visitor's parlour, banking up the fire and sending for tea and sandwiches.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, when they were all settled and steaming slightly. 

"Signs of activity," Athos admitted. "There's definitely been people out there. And barbed wire laid in the woods around it."

"Barbed wire!"

"Yes. I did wonder if that had been you, trying to keep out trespassers?"

"No, no, most certainly not. Good heavens."

"What can you tell us about the chapel?" Aramis asked. "Anything at all."

"Not a great deal really. There is a legend connected with its location though. Most churches tend to be built on high ground, and the story goes that the chosen spot for this one was on a hill slightly to the east. But every day the labourers would toil up the hill with the building stone, only to discover the next morning that in the night the devil had rolled the stone down again, into the valley. After several days of this, they gave up and built the chapel where it currently sits." He sat back and brushed sandwich crumbs from his robe. "But that's a common enough legend, there's any number of churches around the country with the same story attached.

"Interesting connection though. With the devil I mean," Aramis said.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Haven't you seen the sigil on the floor in there?" Athos asked. 

"Sigil? No? I've not spent much time out there, I have to confess. I paid a quick visit to make sure there'd been no damage, but didn't stay long." He looked shocked. "Are you saying these people have been leaving - what, occult marks?"

"Not recently," Aramis smiled. "This one must date back almost to the building of the chapel itself."

"Do you know anything more about why it fell into disuse?" Porthos asked. 

"Not a great deal. The story goes that a group of monks here were inducted into some form of perverse cult. The chapel became the site of their unholy ceremonies, and when they were uncovered it was deconsecrated and abandoned in shame."

"What would it take to reconsecrate it?" Athos asked slowly.

Treville looked startled. "Well, approval from the bishop for a start. If not higher authority."

Athos shook his head. "I'm not talking about the paperwork, I'm talking about the physical act. What would it be, a mass of some kind?"

"Yes, I suppose so. Purification of the ground and rededication to God, that sort of thing."

"Could you do it?"

"Me! No. I'm not a priest Athos."

"Do you have one here who could?"

"Well - yes. Yes, if it came down to it, I suppose so. But it's not the sort of thing we could approach in secret, if that's what you're proposing, we'd all be thrown out of the Church."

"Just a thought," Athos smiled. "Don't worry, it probably won't come to that."

"Oh, that's reassuring." Treville glared at him. "What's going on here, Athos. What are you mixed up in?"

"I'm not entirely sure. But I'm starting to think it's not just us." He hesitated. "Have you ever heard the name Malphas?"

Treville stared at him and Athos frowned. "I see you have. What's wrong?"

"You're the second person to ask me that. The first was interested in the old chapel too." Treville looked uncomfortable, but everyone leaned forward eagerly.

"Well? Who was it?" Athos prompted.

Before he spoke, Treville went to check the door was firmly latched, before coming to sit down again, suddenly looking older and rather tired. 

"We have recently had a new Abbott sent to us," he said cautiously. "Brother Marmion. He came with a number of his own monks from a monastery on the Continent. I must say they haven't worked terribly hard to fit in," he muttered. "But I suppose it must be rather strange for them all."

"And this Marmion is interested in the chapel?" Athos asked eagerly. "And its history? He mentioned Malphas?"

Treville looked at him, puzzled. "Why are you asking me all of this? Surely d'Artagnan here can tell you more about the man's researches than I can?"

"What do you mean?" Athos glanced at d'Artagnan, who looked equally confused.

"Well, they spent so much time together," said Treville. "Couple of days practically locked up together, going over old papers. Surely if anyone can explain Marmion's interest in the place, it's d'Artagnan, not me."

There was a stunned silence, during which d'Artagnan fidgeted uncomfortably as everyone turned to look at him.

"What?" he muttered. "I don't even remember meeting the guy. I swear!" he added defiantly, prickling under their gaze.

Athos turned back to Treville, who looked more puzzled than ever. "D'Artagnan - doesn't remember all of what happened here," he explained, with a note of apology in his voice, knowing it must sound unlikely. "There are two days he has no memory of. We came here hoping to find out what happened to him during that time."

"How odd." Treville sounded dubious, and Athos quickly continued before d'Artagnan could say anything rude.

"You didn't mention Marmion when I spoke to you at the cathedral?"

Treville frowned at him. "I assumed d'Artagnan would have told you all about it. Your questions were rather vague," he said reprovingly.

"Yes, well. I accept it does all sound rather peculiar, I didn't want you to think I'd gone loopy."

D'Artagnan got stiffly to his feet. "Excuse me, may I use the er - facilities?"

"Yes, of course. Through there and down on the left." Treville pointed to a door at the far end. Once d'Artagnan had gone, he looked at Athos gravely.

"Far be it from me to cast aspersions on your students, but I take it you believe him?"

Athos spread his hands. "I have no reason not to. I would trust d'Artagnan with my life." Again pushing away the memory of those glittering black eyes. "If something untoward happened to him here, it was not of his making, and I owe it to him to find out. I sent him here, after all."

"You always did feel far too responsible for the actions of others," Treville retorted. 

"Nevertheless." Athos looked at him. "Do you know what they were doing for those two days? Did they visit the chapel?"

"No, not as far as I know. I already told you, they spent it locked away together in the library. I have no idea what was discussed," Treville said stiffly.

"You mentioned someone took food up - was that you? You didn't overhear anything?" Athos prompted hopefully.

Treville looked affronted. "I am not in the habit of listening at keyholes!"

"My apologies, I meant to imply no such thing." Athos held his gaze. "But you must have been curious? For the Abbott to spend so much time with a stranger, a student? Particularly if you don't especially trust him," Athos added slyly.

"I never said I didn't trust the man!" Treville got to his feet and started pacing the room. "He's my Abbott, I answer to him, I cannot go around - starting rumours that the man's obsessed with devils."

Athos exchanged a glance with the others. "Is he?"

Treville sighed. "I'm sure it's an academic interest only. You asked if I'd heard the name Malphas before. I have heard it twice. The first time, just after Marmion arrived, he was questioning me about the more - esoteric contents of the library here. He wanted to know if we had any demonologies, that sort of thing. Particularly any papers that mentioned this Malphas. I'm not sure why he thought we would possess such a thing."

"There may be a connection with the chapel," Aramis said. "And what happened there. If he'd heard the tales, he might have thought you would have more details on it. What was the second time you heard it?"

"Well - if you must know, yes, I heard it mentioned in that room, between the two of them."

"In what context?" Athos asked.

"I'm not sure, they realised I was there and stopped talking." Treville gave him a rueful look, although whether this was due to the admission he'd been eavesdropping after all, or because he hadn't managed to find much out, wasn’t clear.

Athos sighed, then looked round the room. "Is it me, or is d'Artagnan taking a very long time?"

Porthos got to his feet. "I'll go and check on him. I could do with going, meself."

"Would you? Thank you." Athos smiled gratefully, and Porthos gave him a slight nod. In truth, he was glad to escape the room, had felt awkward sitting in such grand and hushed surroundings, not liking to interject much. 

He found the bathroom and gave a light tap on the door that went unanswered. Trying the handle, it opened easily, and he found himself in a fairly large stone walled room, with three lavatory cubicles and a long trough for handwashing.

"D'Artagnan?" he called, but other than the echo of his own voice off the cold tiles, the room appeared deserted. He tried the three cubicles, pushing the doors tentatively open just in case, but all were empty. 

Shrugging, Porthos relieved himself then washed his hands, wondering where d'Artagnan had gone. As he emerged back into the corridor he heard a noise further down away from the visitors' parlour, and went to investigate.

"D'Artagnan? Is that you?" A door was banging against its stop, as if it had just been let go, and Porthos wondered if d'Artagnan had gone outside. He pushed it open, but discovered it lead to a flight of stone steps leading down into darkness.

Suppressing a shudder, Porthos was reaching out to close the door again when something hit him squarely in the lower back. Taken off guard, he automatically took a pace forward to steady himself, and stepped into thin air.

Losing his footing Porthos tumbled head-first down the flight of steps with a startled yell. There weren't quite as many as he was expecting, and the floor rose up to meet him from the gloom below before he could grab hold of anything to slow himself down. Smacking down onto stone flags, his head caught the edge of the bottom step, and everything went black.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

"D'Artagnan." Athos looked up as he came back in with a slight frown of irritation. "Where's Porthos?"

"Porthos? How should I know? I left him with you?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise.

"But he went to look for you. You must have passed him?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I stepped outside, I needed some air," he explained. His hair was glistening with raindrops which seemed to bear out his story and Athos let it go, although he kept casting anxious looks at the doorway. He was about to go and look for Porthos himself when it swung open. 

His sigh of relief was curtailed when a man he'd never seen before came through it, looking round at them all with an air of polite curiosity, but also one that said quite clearly that they were intruding.

"Brother John. I was belatedly informed we had visitors. Who are all these - oh, d'Artagnan. I'm sorry, I didn't see you there. Welcome back." He held his hand out, and d'Artagnan shook it, looking dazed and also slightly embarrassed. "Are these friends of yours?"

"Yes, er - this is, er, Professor Athos de la Fère, my tutor. And Mr Aramis d'Herblay."

"Pleased to meet you both, I am Abbott Marmion." He shook hands vigorously with both of them, looking round. "But I was told there were four of you?"

"Porthos just stepped out," Athos said distractedly. "I was going to look for him."

The Abbott frowned. "Then possibly that was the ah - forgive me, the coloured gentleman I just saw going down the drive?"

Athos stared at him, startled. "Down the drive? On foot?"

"Yes. He looked rather angry, I must say, I didn't fancy tangling with him to ask who he was. Has there been some kind of argument, perhaps?"

"No." Athos turned to look at the others, who looked equally bewildered. "I can't imagine why he would have left without saying anything to us."

"He won't get far without the car," Aramis pointed out. "We're miles from anywhere here."

"There are buses that pass the end of the drive occasionally," Marmion said. "Possibly he intended to catch one of those? Now, I'm afraid I really must ask all of you to follow his example and leave."

His tone had been so warm and polite and reasonable that it took a second for his words to sink in.

"Leave?" Aramis echoed in surprise.

"They are my guests," objected Treville, but Marmion waved him firmly into silence. 

"They are keeping you from your devotions. And this is a closed order."

"No it isn't!" Treville looked startled.

"It is as of today." Marmion gestured to the door with a graceful hand. "I must regretfully inform you that there will be no further research opportunities here, we will be cataloguing the rest of the archive ourselves, as should have been the case from the start. I'm sure Brother John meant well, but I'm afraid things have changed. I'm sure you understand."

"But - all my research," d'Artagnan protested in alarm. "It was for my dissertation!"

"And we are very grateful for all the work you have done to date," Marmion said smoothly. "I'm sure we can arrange for you to have copies of it, we would not wish to see you at all disadvantaged. If you put the request in writing to our public office, I will ensure it is dealt with sympathetically."

He had shepherded them almost to the door. Athos shot a pleading look at Treville, who shrugged helplessly. 

"I'm sorry Athos, it's out of my hands. He's quite within his rights. There's nothing I can do."

\--

In the car they exchanged worried looks, but Marmion was standing on the steps of the gatehouse watching them implacably with his arms folded inside the sleeves of his robe. There was nothing they could do but leave.

Aramis drove them down to the main road in silence, but about half a mile further on Athos gestured to a lay-by. "Pull over."

Aramis did as he was told, and turned off the engine. "Porthos wouldn't have got further than this if he was on foot," he observed.

"My thoughts exactly." Athos turned in his seat so he could look at them both. "No way would he have left without saying anything. If something had upset him he might have gone to wait in the car, but walk out on us completely? I don't buy it."

"You think Marmion was lying?" d'Artagnan asked from the back seat.

"I'm certain of it." Athos eyed the cloudy sky. "It'll be dark soon," he said. "I'm going back on foot to look for him. It'll technically be trespass, so I can't ask you to come with me."

Aramis snorted. "Like you have to ask."

\--

Porthos came to with a splitting headache and blurry vision. As he tried to blink his surroundings into better focus, he realised to his mounting horror that he was actually in the dark, in a stone room. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, and he felt the bile rise in his throat.

As the seconds passed though, he slowly began to realise that it wasn't completely dark, and unlike in his nightmares he was free to move. He scrambled unsteadily to his feet, moving instinctively towards the faint source of light.

This proved to be coming from three small high-level, half-moon windows, clogged with dust and cobwebs. Pulling a crate across he hauled himself up and wiped one of the panes clear, feeling his breathing ease slightly at the sight of grass and trees outside. He wasn't in a nightmare, he told himself. He was just in a cellar.

Memory returned, fragmentary and alarming. The shove, the fall. Finally remembering where he was, teasing it free from the shreds of so many similar nightmares, Porthos jumped down from the crate and hurried back up the steps. The door, however, proved to be firmly locked, and no amount of twisting or shaking the handle would persuade it to open.

He banged on the door loudly. "Athos!" he bellowed. "John! Anyone!" 

Porthos kicked and banged and yelled for a long time, but nobody came, and when he listened could detect no sound beyond the door. It was as if the place was deserted.

Eventually he went miserably back down the steps and sat down to wait. Presumably whoever had locked him in here would come back for him at some point, and then they'd regret messing with him. 

He briefly entertained the idea that it had been d'Artagnan, then dismissed it again. Porthos wondered where the others were, and what they made of his disappearance. Judging by the dusky light outside it must be some time since he'd last seen them. 

Athos wouldn't willingly leave without him, he knew that like a warm certainty in his heart. But the fact that nobody had come yet gnawed away at him. What if something had happened to the others too? Had he been locked down here so he couldn't protect them?

The sun was slipping further down, and the room was getting darker by degrees. Porthos shivered. He really, really didn't want to be down here in the pitch dark. It was too close to another time, and another cellar, where he'd thought he was going to die. There'd been things waiting for him in the dark then, with clutching hands and hissing voices, and he had come so, so close to breaking.

The sound of a key in the lock had him on his feet in seconds, and as the door swung open he squinted into the sudden light. "Athos?"

"Afraid not." 

Porthos growled. "Let me out of here you bastard!" He put his head down and raced up the stairs with the ferocity of a charging bull, intent on breaking his way out.

Marmion stepped out of his way with a disapproving tut of "that's Abbott Bastard, to you," and Porthos suddenly found himself beset on all sides by cowled figures. It took four of them to subdue him, raining down kicks and blows with an economy of movement that was all the more eerie for being carried out in complete silence. 

Bruised and bleeding, Porthos was held face down on the floor while his hands were bound behind his back.

"You won't get away with this," he snarled, spitting blood onto the tiles. "My friends will come for me."

A gag was stuffed roughly into his mouth and fastened behind his head, and one of the monks approached him with a dark cloth bag. The last thing Porthos saw before it was pulled over his head was Marmion smiling down at him.

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Marmion said. "It does need there to be four of you, after all."

\--

The three men stole through the trees, making their way as quietly as possible towards the old chapel. The going was awkward in the dark, uneven underfoot and the tangled undergrowth unpleasantly wet, although at least the rain had stopped again. 

Sneaking back in through the grounds, they had been making for the gatehouse when they'd caught sight of a torchlit procession heading off through the trees, manhandling a bound and struggling figure. They'd been too far away to see if it was Porthos, but it seemed a fairly good bet.

Reasonably sure the party would be aiming for the chapel they'd been able to hang back at a safe distance, but now cautiously converged on the ruins. A circle of robed and cowled figures stood silently around the perimeter, some bearing lanterns. Flaming, guttering torches were stuck into various holes in the stonework, and in the centre of the space two monks held on to the still struggling prisoner.

The only unhooded figure was Marmion, and as they watched he yanked the concealing sack from the prisoner's head revealing Porthos, gagged and furious.

Athos' first reaction was one of relief - at least he was still alive and relatively unharmed. They edged closer, trying for silence, but a twig cracked sharply under d'Artagnan's foot and they froze.

Marmion looked up, peering out into the darkness between the ring of lights and laughing.

"I know you're out there. Why don't you come and join us?"

There was no response from the dark woods, and he withdrew a wicked looking dagger from the folds of his robe. 

"How about now? Show yourselves, or I start bleeding him." Marmion raised the dagger to Porthos' throat, and Athos hissed in frustration. 

"Stay here," he whispered, and got to his feet, striding out into the circle of torchlight.

"Ah, there you are." Marmion gave him a triumphant smile.

"Stop this madness," Athos ordered. "Let him go."

To his surprise, Marmion gestured to the figures holding Porthos by the arms, and they stepped back. Athos went to him quickly and untied his hands.

Porthos yanked the gag from his mouth and turned to him in frantic alarm.

"Athos you shouldn't have come, it's a trap!" 

"I know," Athos said quietly, patting his arm. "But did you really think I was going to leave you behind?"

They shared a tight smile, and turned back to face Marmion.

"Give up Marmion," Athos said coldly. "You're surrounded."

"Really? Why don't I believe you?" Marmion retorted, sounding amused. "For one thing you wouldn't have had time to fetch anyone, let alone get them to believe in the threat." He looked out beyond the circle of lights and smiled unpleasantly. "Tell me, do you really have reinforcements - d'Artagnan?"

"No. It's just us." D'Artagnan stepped forward into the light.

Porthos stared at him incredulously. "You little - " he made to move forward, but Athos grasped his arm and held him back. D'Artagnan wouldn't look at them, standing with his head bowed, his hair hiding his face. 

"Thank you d'Artagnan." Marmion gave him a mocking bow, and then raised his voice. "Why don't you come and join us Mr Herblay? It can't be very pleasant hiding out there in all that damp undergrowth."

Aramis bit his lip, weighing his chances and wondering if he should run for help. In the end he sighed and straightened up, walking out to join Athos and Porthos. 

"What's going on?" he asked in a low voice. "Why did d'Artagnan give us away?"

Marmion heard him and laughed. "You've had a cuckoo in the nest, I'm afraid," he said, studying their astonished and betrayed expressions with pleasure. Athos just stared back at him implacably, and Marmion frowned. "You're not surprised? How disappointing."

"I suspected something was wrong with him," Athos said quietly, as Aramis and Porthos stared at him in surprise.

"You didn't feel the need to share that information?" Porthos growled. 

Athos shrugged. "I didn't want to turn you both against him, if I was wrong. It could still have been just a trick of the light," he sighed.

"What do you mean?" Aramis asked.

"His eyes."

"What about his - " Aramis looked up at d'Artagnan and broke off in horror. 

"Oh my God," Porthos murmured. 

D'Artagnan was now facing them, and his eyes were a solid, malevolent black.

"What have you done to him?" Aramis asked, keeping the tremor out of his voice with an effort.

"Me? Nothing. He did it to himself," Marmion declared. "Oh alright, so I might have helped the process along a little. But he is honoured. He is the chosen vessel for my master."

"Malphas," said Athos. 

Marmion glared at him. "You are unworthy to speak His name! You should be grovelling in the dirt on your knees."

"Forgive me if I don't, it's a bit wet," Athos told him distractedly, still staring sadly at d'Artagnan.

"So what do you need us for, if your mate here's already taken a host?" Porthos demanded, still cross. "And while we're on the subject, who pushed me down the bloody stairs?"

Athos looked at him in some concern, not having realised he'd been hurt. For the first time he noticed the crusted line of blood at Porthos' temple, and the bruises that were starting to swell where he'd been beaten.

"Oh that was d'Artagnan," Marmion smiled. 

"Remind me to give him a slap," Porthos muttered. 

"Yes, he's been very useful. Drawing you all here. Preparing you."

Aramis shivered as he remembered the scalpel in his pocket, and the way it had been d'Artagnan who'd let the barbed wire spring back at Athos earlier that afternoon. D'Artagnan, too, whose apparent carelessness in the woods had given them away in the first place. Had there been a demon in residence when he'd kissed him, when he'd held him? It had only ever felt like d'Artagnan. Surely he wasn't lost to them forever?

D'Artagnan had drawn closer, staring at them curiously through blank eyes. When he got to Aramis he grinned unpleasantly, pushing his face closer. Aramis reached out and deliberately drew the sign of the cross on d'Artagnan's forehead with his thumb.

The result was spectacular. d'Artagnan hurled himself away with a hissing protest, sprawling full length on the wet stones. When he looked back up at them his eyes were back to normal, and filled with desperation.

"Help me!" he begged hoarsely. "Help me, please!"

"You've betrayed them, why would they help you now?" Marmion aimed a kick at him. "Get up."

"You supposed to treat the chosen vessel of your precious master like that?" Porthos asked, looking unfavourably at him.

"Wretched boy keeps fighting it," Marmion muttered. 

"He resealed the parchment," Athos realised. "He tried to stop me opening it."

"Still brought it to you in the first place, didn't he?" Marmion pointed out nastily. "You are needed, you see, the four of you. A sacrifice to open the way for my master."

Marmion lifted his arms dramatically and suddenly the ring of cowled monks started chanting in unison.

"A sacrifice?" repeated Porthos uneasily. "I don't like the sound of that. I don't think he's talking about hard work and clean living."

"We could always just run," Aramis suggested quietly. "They don't seem to be armed apart from that dagger. They'd never catch us in the dark."

"You could really leave d'Artagnan?" Athos murmured. Aramis sighed.

"No, of course not. Just playing devil's advocate."

"Might want to rethink your phrasing there," Athos said with a slight smile.

"Now what are they up to?" Porthos interrupted, and the others turned to look. Some of the monks were approaching the carved slab, two brandishing a crowbar and a heavy iron bladed spade. With some considerable effort they levered it up until it was wedged in a vertical position.

Porthos tensed, but the lifting of the slab revealed not the steps or crypt entrance he had feared, but merely a murky looking pool of water.

The monks' chanting intensified, and it gradually became apparent that the disturbance in the surface of the water was no natural phenomenon caused by the removing of the stone, but was being generated by some other force. Rather than calming to a smooth surface, the ripples became steadily bigger and choppier until the water was churning in a spiralling vortex.

Marmion stepped up to the edge and addressed the waves. "Malphas! Hear me! Come forth upon the world, and accept my sacrifice in your name. Four souls I offer, that you may walk in the world once more, step forth from the gates of hell and tread upon the earth in all your infernal glory!"

Waiting for something awful to happen they all tensed, then flinched back in shock as the four monks who'd pried up the stone in the first place suddenly and spontaneously caught fire. Screaming and beating at their robes, they staggered against each other as the conflagration flared higher, until the screaming abruptly cut off and there was nothing left but four piles of charred bones clattering to the floor.

For a second there was silence. Black-eyed once more, d'Artagnan regarded Marmion, putting his head on one side in an almost birdlike gesture. "Your sacrifice is accepted," he said.

"I didn't mean them!" Marmion exclaimed, sounding irritated more than horrified. "What are you doing? Get back in position!" Glaring at the remaining monks, who'd all shuffled back slightly while trying not to appear like they were doing so.

For a moment Athos entertained the thought that some instinct or will of d'Artagnan's had deflected the demon's influence, but one glance at the cruel smile on his face suggested otherwise. It looked out of place on features normally kind and well-meaning, and Athos suppressed a shudder, whilst remembering something else.

"It could be you have mistaken Malphas' attitude towards sacrifice," Athos suggested helpfully, and Marmion whirled to glare at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, it is written after all, in the Lesser Key of Solomon, that Malphas will accept sacrifices kindly but respond with treachery, for any who present him with material offerings have misunderstood the nature of the intangible rewards he can provide," Athos said slowly, trying to recall everything he had read.

"You expect me to believe you have a copy of the Key?"

Athos smiled blithely. "It's true what they say, it's not what you know, it's who you know. And I happen to have access to a very interesting man's library."

Marmion kicked steaming bones out of his way irritably. "You couldn't have mentioned this before?"

"You'd have assumed I was lying, in order to try and save my life," Athos pointed out reasonably. "Besides, I had no way of knowing what was going to happen."

Marmion stared thoughtfully into the still-whirling waters, then over at d'Artagnan. "It still should have worked. Why didn't it work?"

D'Artagnan - or whoever was looking out of his eyes - made a tutting noise. "You hear, but you do not listen," he said. "I told you, the four of them will form the gateway by which I shall truly manifest. In your arrogance you took that to mean sacrifice. But the connection must be complete, and Athos is not yet blooded."

At this Marmion raised the ceremonial knife with a certain determination, and Porthos and Aramis closed ranks protectively in front of Athos.

"You'll have to come through us first," Porthos glowered.

"It'll be a pleasure," Marmion shot back, but d'Artagnan waved him away again, smiling unpleasantly.

"Save your strength. Athos will do this, and willingly." D'Artagnan looked over at them, and nodded slowly. "He will help me manifest my corporeal form, and he will do so of his own free will."

"In your dreams," Porthos retorted, but Athos moved him gently out of the way. 

"He's right," Athos said softly, and they both looked at him in astonishment.

"What are you talking about?" Porthos demanded. "We don't want some demon running about the place. Prince of Hell, remember? That's not good."

"If he manifests," Aramis added, "he'll be immeasurably more powerful than he is now. At the moment he's mostly just along for the ride."

"And that's why I have to do this," Athos said resignedly. "Because it's the only way to draw him out of d'Artagnan."

They stared at him in shock, until the sound of a slow, mocking clap came from d'Artagnan. They pointedly ignored him.

"If you have an alternative, I'm all ears," Athos said quietly. "But the only other way to break the bond would be to kill him, and I would prefer to avoid that, on the whole."

Porthos sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. "I hope you know what you're doing," he muttered.

Athos gave him a bleak smile. "Working on it."

Grudgingly, Porthos nodded his consent, as did Aramis. At a nod from d'Artagnan, Marmion handed Athos the dagger, looking dubious.

Athos removed his gloves, flexing his fingers. "Does it have to be my hand?" he asked plaintively.

D'Artagnan smirked. "Yes. It's symbolic." 

"And once I do this - the four of us somehow form a psychic link, is that right? That's powerful enough to open a channel to - hell?"

"As good a name as any, for your limited understanding." D'Artagnan shot a sly glance at Marmion. "You know, given you've spent most of your life in my service, this one's much quicker on the uptake. I think I might keep him."

Marmion glared, but didn't dare contradict his master. Exchanging nervous glances with the others, Athos took the dagger in his right hand and braced himself, slicing shallowly across his left palm.

As soon as the blood welled up between the parting skin, they felt the change. The atmosphere thickened, as if a storm was about to break, and d'Artagnan's black eyes seemed to glow with a blue fire.

"I'll take that, I think," Marmion ordered, holding out his hand for the dagger.

Athos shook his head obstinately, and stuck it through his belt. "I don't think so somehow. I'd feel more comfortable knowing it's not about to plunge into my back." 

He held out his bloodied hand to Porthos, who took it without hesitating. Aramis took hold of Athos' right hand, and looked to the side, where d'Artagnan presented his own hand with a mocking flourish. Aramis hesitated, then grasped it firmly.

The moment they were all in contact the air seemed to crackle with static electricity, and everyone's skin prickled with gooseflesh. The circled monks resumed their chanting at a greater frenzy than before, and Marmion repeated his earlier invocation, repeating it again in Latin, and then again in an unfamiliar language that somehow hurt the ears to hear it spoken.

This time they all saw the change in the water. It churned and thrashed as if from some disturbance beneath the surface, then swirled as if emptying down a drain. The more they stared, the more the angle of it seemed somehow _wrong_ , as if they weren't looking down into a pool but ahead into a doorway, and the surface seemed more light than water. 

A dark form began to coalesce in the centre, that seemed both infinitely far away and frighteningly close, as if only needing to step across a threshold to be manifest in the world. An all pervading sense of fear came with it, the bone-deep freezing dread of the worst nightmare made flesh.

Aramis felt d'Artagnan's hand jerk in his own and dragged his gaze away from the vortex to look at him. His startled cry made the others look too, and they stared in mute horror as a dark aura seemed to flow out of him. As it passed it brought with it the buzzing of flies and the stinging of hail, and then it was gone, merging with the form in the portal.

As it approached even its steps felt off, lumbering and jerky, inhuman, moving through too many planes and angles for the eye to cope with. One moment distant, the next minute it was suddenly, shockingly _there_ at the threshold, and a figure, dark and indistinct stepped out and onto the ground.

The second it emerged the monks stopped chanting and silence fell, broken only by a tiny moan from d'Artagnan, who crumpled to the ground and lay still. Aramis quickly bent to examine him.

"Is he dead?" Athos asked tightly, afraid of the answer.

Aramis shook his head. "He's breathing, but that's about it." He straightened up again, and they turned to look at the new arrival. Marmion had dropped to his knees, bowing his head in obeisance. 

"Malphas, my Lord Prince." 

The figure was lumpen, pale and hairless. It had human eyes, but they were red and bleeding. It wore, or seemed to wear, a simple long-sleeved tunic and trousers, but details escaped the eye, as if it was only wearing the idea of clothing.

It looked at the three of them and smiled, and its mouth was a red gash. 

"My pillars." It gave a throaty laugh, that sounded like someone drowning. "My thanks, for finally bringing me into being."

"So - you owe us then, right?" Porthos ventured hopefully. He was scared out of his wits, which was making him angry.

The thing that was Malphas turned to look at him directly, and Porthos discovered that actually it was possible to be more frightened than he had been a second ago. He prayed he wasn't about to piss himself. 

"You think I should grant you three wishes perhaps?" Malphas rasped. "Do I look like a genie?"

"More like a Marjorie, I'd have said," Porthos said, forcing down the fear. He heard Aramis stifle a horrified laugh and it gave him strength.

Marmion however was appalled. Still on his knees, as Malphas had largely ignored him in favour of the others and not yet given him permission to rise, he was at something of a disadvantage, but he glared up at them looking angry and scandalised. "You dare address your God thus?"

"He might be your God, but he's not ours," Aramis muttered. 

"And yet your fate lies in my hands," Malphas replied, his voice a bubbling purr. "A fitting end after your previous meddling." He watched them stir at his words, and smacked raw lips together in pleasure. "Oh yes, I know you four of old, did you think my choice of conduit was random? You almost released me once before, did you not, and you have been marked ever since."

He moved back in front of Porthos, and looked at him with something like interest. "Have you felt me, in your dreams? Getting stronger? Getting closer." He looked thoughtful. "I know your father."

Porthos started violently. "You lie," he said hoarsely.

"Why should I? He is mine. He too thought to release me once, in search of reward. He failed, and paid the price. But don't worry. You will get to spend eternity in torment next to him. I think I'll seal you in a sarcophagus, and fill it with water. Drowning, forever, with no hope of release."

Shuddering, Porthos couldn't speak but Malphas had moved onto Aramis. "And you. The wheel for you, I think. Broken and torn, over and over. Eternally."

Before Aramis could come up with a suitable reply, Malphas had passed on to Athos. He moved with a blurry shudder, never quite seeming to, but suddenly being in a different position.

"And you. Such shame, you're hiding, for what you are. It tastes bright on my tongue. I do like a man with a certain self-loathing. The red hot poker would be fitting for you, I think."

"And what about me?" The voice from behind him was unexpected and Malphas turned in surprise. Unregarded, d'Artagnan had regained his senses and staggered to his feet. And he was holding the shovel. "What do I get?"

With that, he brought the shovel round in an arcing swing, and sliced into Malphas' neck. The blade bit deep, the iron hissing through demonic flesh, and Malphas dropped to the ground, his head almost severed from his body.

"What have you done?" Marmion was on his feet in a flash, screaming in rage and horror. He turned to the surrounding monks and pointed hysterically at the four of them. "Kill them!" 

"Stop right there!" 

For a moment all was confusion, as the monks converging on them looked up to see a _second_ circle of robed figures emerging from the surrounding trees.

One of them, the man who had shouted the order, stepped forward and pushed back his hood and Athos made a noise of surprised relief. 

"Treville! What are you doing here?"

"Upon further consideration, your suggestion of having the place reconsecrated bore considerable merit," Treville said grimly. He was brandishing his old service revolver, and now pointed it levelly at Marmion.

Athos frowned in surprise. "What happened to needing permission from the Bishop?"

"As a matter of fact, that's why I'm here. I have just received a telephone call from the Bishop, with some extremely disturbing news. A number of bodies have been discovered in a shallow grave in a field in France. They have just been identified as belonging to Abbott Marmion and his brothers." Treville narrowed his eyes. "So whoever this is, he's an impostor and a murderer."

Marmion suddenly darted forward and yanked the dagger out of Athos' belt. Taken by surprise, Athos had no time to do more than watch helplessly as Marmion drew back his arm and hurled the dagger towards Treville. 

At the same moment Treville fired, and Marmion staggered backwards clutching his chest, the knife flying wide. After a second, a dark blood stain began to blossom beneath his fingers, and Marmion stared down at it in disbelief. He stumbled back a pace, and another - then his foot turned on one of the piles of charred bones, and he pitched backwards into the swirling vortex that still filled the gateway. He disappeared with a howl that cut off with a chilling abruptness.

"Where did he go?" Treville asked, sounding puzzled. 

Athos shook his head. "Nowhere good." He gave Treville a sidelong glance. "The Bishop know you've still got that?"

Treville made the gun disappear into the folds of his robe. "Got what?"

With everyone's attention distracted by Marmion's sudden disappearance, the remaining monks of his coterie abruptly made a break for it, scattering in all directions and dashing into the woods.

"After them!" Treville yelled. "Don't let them get away." He and the rest of the monks gave chase and the chapel once more fell quiet. 

Aramis turned to d’Artagnan and took him by the shoulders, staring intently into his eyes. To his relief they were warm and brown and not a trace of the shadow of Malphas remained.

"It's me," d'Artagnan said earnestly, guessing his thoughts. "It's really me, I swear."

Aramis pulled him into his arms, and they clung to each other in wordless relief.

Athos smiled, then looked round as Porthos grabbed his arm.

"Oh, no." Porthos was staring at the almost decapitated body of Malphas - which was slowly starting to move.

\--


	6. Chapter 6

They watched in horror as Malphas climbed slowly to his feet, swinging his head back into place. It balanced there slightly off kilter, a line of red around his throat all there was to suggest it was no longer attached.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?" he asked d'Artagnan scornfully. "I am eternal. Immortal. All powerful."

"Your friends have abandoned you," Porthos pointed out. 

Malphas shrugged. "I have others. Would you like to meet them?" He spread his arms, and suddenly there was a blurring in the air, as a stream of creatures issued forth from the portal. 

It was hard to see clearly what any of them were; some crawled, some flew, some scuttled. Most were animal or insect in form, albeit hideously misshapen and exaggerated, but amongst them they caught sight of something that might just have been a scampering, clawing imp, and they all shuddered.

As they watched, Malphas too seemed to grow in stature, his features becoming more refined. Now he seemed to wear a stylish dark suit, dark hair curling to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes above a neat van Dyke beard.

He smiled, and it was cold. "Welcome, to Hell on Earth."

"You made us your conduit," Athos said bleakly. "You gave us the power to open a portal into hell."

Malphas laughed, and now it sounded like broken glass, sharp and bright and deadly. "Yes. All made possible thanks to you."

Athos nodded slowly. "Then that was your mistake." Suddenly his voice was like steel, and full of resolve. "Because in that case we also have the power to close it again."

Athos held out his hand and first Porthos, then Aramis and d'Artagnan laid their own on top. 

Joined once more they could all feel the power coiling between them, seeking an outlet, and then Aramis began reciting the words of the exorcism.

"I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every spectre from hell and all your fell companions, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this place of God, for it is He who commands you. Hearken and tremble in fear, you enemy of the faith, you begetter of death, you robber of life, you corrupter of justice, you root of all evil and vice, seducer of men, instigator of envy, font of avarice, fomenter of discord, author of pain and sorrow. Begone, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." 

"Thought you couldn't do exorcisms?" Athos murmured once he'd finished the litany.

"After the last time I looked it up," Aramis admitted. "Thought it might come in handy."

It was working. They could _feel_ it working, see that the stream of creatures and nightmares made flesh was reversing, vanishing back into the howling void, screeching and chittering and buzzing as they went. Malphas too, seemed to diminish before their eyes, his glamour fading, until the pale, dead-eyed creature of before was standing before them. 

But standing he was, and while all else had gone, Malphas remained.

"We cast you out, Malphas," Aramis declared. "Leave this place, there is no toehold for you here."

Malphas looked sly. "It shall be as you say. But I will not leave without my due."

"What due?" Porthos demanded roughly. "What are you talking about?"

"Who is the leader amongst you?" Malphas asked ignoring him.

"We don't have a leader," said Athos, uncomfortably aware that the other three had automatically looked at him. 

Malphas smiled, an unpleasantly lop-sided effect as his head seemed to be slowly sliding off his neck again. He shoved it irritably back into alignment, and Athos was irresistibly reminded of the way he fussed with his own glasses.

"They seem to have nominated you," Malphas said to Athos. "Aren't you honoured?" he drawled sarcastically. "The decision then is to be yours, as to who will pay the price for my summoning."

Athos sighed inwardly. "What is the price?"

"A soul."

This was met with horror. 

"You already have a soul, you have Marmion," Aramis pointed out.

"Marmion's soul has belonged to me for years," Malphas said, sounding bored. "No, you four summoned me forth of your own free will and the price must be paid by one of you. I will not leave without my proper due, and you cannot force me to."

They looked at each other, horribly aware that they had done exactly as he claimed. It had been done to save d'Artagnan, but it seemed that after all, one of their lives would be forfeit.

"This then, is the choice I set before you," Malphas told Athos, with a gleam of avaricious laughter in his red eyes. "And let me warn you, if you do not choose, the souls of all four of you will be mine."

"Then I choose myself," Athos said without hesitation.

"Athos, no!" Porthos cried, but Malphas was already shaking his head.

"You can't choose yourself. It has to be one of the others."

"Why? You want a soul, I imagine mine's as good as any other," Athos said bitterly, ignoring Porthos' frantically shaking head.

"Yes, but where's the fun in that?"

"Fun?" Athos echoed incredulously.

Malphas yawned. "Do you have any idea how long eternity is, really? The only fun I get is messing with you mortals. So yes, you have to choose from amongst your companions."

"I won't. I refuse."

"Then all four of you will be mine," Malphas reminded him. "Won't you damn one, to save the other two? To save yourself?"

"Choose me!" shouted d'Artagnan. Athos' gaze flickered involuntarily over to where they were standing. D'Artagnan. Aramis. Porthos. How could he ever choose between them?

"I accept your choice."

Athos whirled round. "What? But I didn't choose!"

"He didn't say anything," Aramis objected.

"You forget, I can see into your pitiful little minds. He made a decision. And - I accept."

"No." Athos stared at him in horror. "I didn't choose. You can't do this."

"Can, and have. Unless you'd prefer me to stay, wreak a little more havoc? All you have to do is unleash me upon the world. Countless would die before my legions, but perhaps the soul of the one would be worth it? No?" Malphas sneered. "How predictably tedious."

He turned back towards the sickening void, and Athos' breath caught in his throat. "Wait!"

Malphas looked back. "Oh, never let it be said I am needlessly cruel," he called mockingly. "The life of a man is but the blink of an eye to one such as I. Your chosen one can live out his allotted span, and I shall do nothing to hasten his demise. But when his time comes - I shall be waiting."

With that he turned and stepped into the tunnel of dizzying planes, which somehow widened and flattened and tilted until he was walking away from them straight _down_ , and then the walls closed in, the water briefly boiled and seethed, and then the paving slab crashed down in his wake and all was silent and still.

Athos stared at the ground where he'd vanished, feeling numb.

"Athos?" Porthos called hesitantly, when he didn't move.

"Athos, who did you choose?" D'Artagnan, his voice high and tight.

Slowly, Athos forced himself to look round and face them. "I chose no one," he said bleakly.

"Well Malphas seemed to think you did!" D’Artagnan exclaimed. "Who did you choose, Athos? Alright, who did you think about then? We have a right to know!"

There was a wretched, awful silence.

"He chose me."

Everyone turned to look at Aramis in shock. 

"I'm right, aren't I?" Aramis said, holding Athos' gaze. 

"I didn't choose anyone," Athos protested miserably, but it sounded weak even to him.

Aramis shook his head. "Not consciously perhaps. I'd hope it wasn't entirely as clear cut as all that. But you'd never have chosen Porthos. And you've always been so protective of d'Artagnan. Which leaves - me." He smiled. "A process of elimination perhaps, more than a choice. Is that how it went? Tell me I'm wrong."

Athos looked aghast. "Aramis," he breathed, looking like he might crumble to pieces at any moment. "What have I done?"

"The right thing." Aramis stepped forwards and took his hands. "Do you think I wouldn't have volunteered myself in a heartbeat, to save all of you? As you tried to do yourself, Athos. As I imagine we all would have, to save the people we love. You chose well. And I forgive you."

Athos was blinking back tears. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't - I would never - "

"But apparently you did!" D'Artagnan burst out, unable to stay quiet any longer. "What the hell? Aramis is your best friend! Your oldest friend! How could you?"

Athos flinched back from his hot, angry words as if from a blow. Aramis released his hands to grasp d'Artagnan by the shoulders, pulling him away. Still shouting, d'Artagnan was almost in tears. 

"You traitor! I hate you!"

With a last agonised look of despair, Athos turned away and plunged into the trees. Porthos gave d'Artagnan a sour glare, and hurried after him.

"Hush now. It's for the best." Aramis tried to soothe d'Artagnan, who was still beside himself.

"For the best?" D'Artagnan stared at him in anguish. "How can you say that?"

"Of all of us, I am the best one Athos could have chosen," Aramis said simply. "My faith is the strongest, I am in no danger." 

"You don't know that," d'Artagnan said, though hiccupping breaths. "He's damned you. How could he?"

"Then what would you have done?" Aramis asked calmly. "Who would you have chosen, if it had been you? If not me then who would you have picked? Athos? Porthos?"

"Me!" D'Artagnan blurted. "It should have been me! All this is my fault! Athos should have picked me." His words were breaking down, sobs forcing their way out between them. "It can't be you," he said brokenly. "I love you."

Aramis took him into his arms and held him close. "As I love you. And I am glad you are safe. Athos loves you too, you know. He did all this to save you from Malphas in the first place, are you really surprised he could not condemn you to the pit? And this is how you repay him, with hard words and spite." His words were soft rather than accusing, but d'Artagnan buried his face against Aramis' chest in shame.

\--

"Athos! Athos, wait!" Porthos ran between the trees, trying to catch up. He finally managed it, belatedly realising that Athos hadn't stopped to wait for him but had blindly walked right into the barbed wire and was trying to untangle himself.

"Athos. Athos, hey. Are you alright?" As he turned towards him, Porthos realised there were tears running down his face, and reached out to him with an aching heart. "Athos."

Athos crumpled into his arms, and Porthos held him fiercely. "It's alright. It's alright."

"What have I done?" Athos mumbled, clinging to him. "My God, what have I done?"

"You didn't do anything," Porthos pointed out. "You said nothing, it was all trickery. Who says that bastard demon picked anything out of your head? Could be all he wants is to ruin everyone's lives, make us fall apart believing something that's not true. Demons lie, Athos."

"Except when the truth hurts more," Athos pointed out wretchedly. "And Aramis is right, that's exactly what I thought. But I would never have said it aloud. I'd have risked damning all of us, and that thought frightens me even more."

"Shhh." Porthos rocked him soothingly in his arms. "We can't change what's done."

"D'Artagnan hates me. Aramis must hate me too, whatever he says."

"D'Artagnan's upset, and probably in shock, given that hardly ten minutes ago there was a demon wearing him like a cardigan. And Aramis told you perfectly clearly that he doesn't hold it against you. Don't tear yourself up over this Athos, none of it is your fault."

"If I hadn't opened the gateway - "

"Then d'Artagnan would either be dead or still possessed," Porthos pointed out. "And you'd be beating yourself up about that instead. We're all alive, Athos. Malphas is gone. We won. I'll take that as a victory, and so will Aramis."

"And so will I." They turned at the quiet voice, to find d'Artagnan standing there looking pale and shame-faced. 

"I'm sorry Athos. I didn't mean what I said. I don't hate you, of course I don't. You risked everything to save me. I just - this whole thing was my fault from start to finish, and if anyone suffers for it, it should have been me."

"It wasn't your fault," Athos said hoarsely. "You were tricked as much as any of us."

"Well it wasn't your fault either," d'Artagnan insisted, and after staring at each other miserably for a second, they fell into each other's arms and embraced warmly and with relief.

When they parted, d'Artagnan looked up at Porthos, rather warily. "Forgive me?" he pleaded.

"I still owe you a slap," Porthos said dourly, and d'Artagnan nodded ruefully, chin up, bracing himself for whatever came.

"Oh, for - come here." Porthos made an exasperated noise in his throat and pulled d'Artagnan into a fierce hug. "Stupid bastard," he muttered.

Aramis stepped out of the trees to stand next to Athos, and after a long look at each other they too embraced, quietly and emotionally. They'd known each other a long time, and to a certain extent there was no need for words.

"So what do we do now?" D'Artagnan asked, once they were all reconciled to each other once more.

"We have done all we can," Aramis said. "Malphas is banished, and Marmion is dead. As for the rest, there is nothing more to be done." 

"But there must be something!" D'Artagnan pleaded. "We can't just leave you to the thought of eventual damnation!"

Aramis shook his head, then drew the simple gold cross he wore out of his shirt and kissed it. "I am quite safe. The devil cannot take what is already promised to God," he explained quietly.

Wearily, they started to walk back towards the monastery. Keen to reach bright lights and warmth, Athos and d'Artagnan were soon some distance ahead, and Porthos fell back to walk beside Aramis. 

"Do you really believe that?" Porthos murmured, first checking that Athos and d'Artagnan were well out of hearing range. "What you said about being safe?"

Aramis hesitated before answering. "I have to," he said finally. "If I allow myself to believe otherwise - I'll go mad." 

They walked on in silence for a while, then Aramis looked sideways at him and smiled. "But perhaps it wouldn't hurt to mend my wandering ways a little. From now on, I am strictly a one man guy."

Porthos laughed. "For a minute there I thought you were going to say you were going to become a monk."

Aramis slapped him on the back. "Now that, Porthos my friend, really would send me mad."

Their laughter made the others look round and wait for them, and as they caught up Porthos felt vaguely guilty. 

"Sorry," he murmured to Athos. "Probably not appropriate."

"No, I'm glad you can laugh," Athos said quietly. "I don't feel like I'll ever laugh again." Porthos put his arms around him, and held him close. 

"It'll be okay," he promised. "Everyone will be okay. You'll see."

\--

After the darkness and horror, the calm of the monastery came as a welcome relief. Someone brought them hot drinks, and Aramis cleaned and tended to the cut on Athos' hand, ignoring his protests that he was fine. 

Treville and the other monks had rounded up the rest of Marmion's unholy brothers, and as a temporary measure locked them in the same cellar Porthos had been held in while the police were summoned.

With Marmion gone, Treville was faintly relieved he wouldn't have to explain a body with a bullet in it, self-defence or not. The charred remains of the four cremated monks had also been quietly removed, and would receive a Christian burial in an unmarked grave once the chapel had been reconsecrated.

They left before the police arrived, Treville discreetly suggesting their presence didn't need to be mentioned. He intended to tell the police that following the Bishop's telephone call he had simply confined those brothers he could find, and was unaware of the whereabouts of Marmion and the others.

"It'll mean wasting a certain amount of police time while they look for him, but I suspect if I tried to explain what actually happened here to the county constabulary, they would lock me up as well," he told them. "Quite apart from the fact I'm not entirely sure myself." 

"It's probably best that way," Athos sighed. "Trust me. You don't want to know."

They trudged back to the car, and Aramis drove them back into town. Athos had been almost silent the whole way, and dropping them off at the cottage Aramis beckoned Porthos back as Athos went to unlock the door.

"Look after him. I know what he's like, he'll fret over this," he murmured.

"I will. You can count on it," Porthos said quietly.

Once they were indoors Porthos offered to make them some supper, but Athos shook his head distractedly.

"I'm not hungry."

"Why don't we go to bed then, eh?" Porthos suggested. They'd been surprised to find it hadn't been all that late, still well before midnight when they'd finally made it home.

Porthos went to the bathroom to clean his teeth and wash the dirt off, wincing as he discovered new bruises he hadn't known about. Now the adrenaline of the events had worn off he was starting to ache all over, and all he wanted was to lie down in bed with Athos in his arms. 

He was hoping, too, that with Malphas defeated his nightmares would stop. Right now the idea of a whole night's sleep without bad dreams was the happiest thought in the world.

When he came out though, he found Athos sitting on the floor surrounded by books he'd pulled from the shelves.

"There must be something," Athos muttered, not looking up. "Something on breaking bargains, or - or proof that they can't take something not freely offered."

"Athos." Porthos leaned over and deliberately closed the grimoire he was poring over. "Come to bed. You're exhausted and strung out and you need to rest."

After a muted protest Athos gave in and followed him upstairs. He sat wearily on the bed unfastening his shirt with numb fingers, and Porthos looked at him and sighed. There was something that had been on his mind, too.

"What Malphas said - about you," Porthos ventured, sitting down next to him. 

"Me?" Athos looked up in surprise. His mind had been focussed on Aramis.

"About you being full of shame," Porthos said carefully, and Athos looked away, flushing.

"You know how I've struggled accepting myself," he muttered. "That should hardly have come as a surprise."

"But you don't actually believe that what we're doing - you don't believe it's damning your soul, do you?" Porthos asked, afraid of what the answer would be, but needing to know.

Athos looked at him for a beat, then sighed. "I'm not Catholic," he said slowly. "The question of whether it's a sin or not is rather irrelevant." He sighed. "The fact that demons seem to exist in their own right - I don't know what that means, for what I believe. But no, in answer to your question, I don't truly believe our actions in this life can condemn our souls. Bargains, possibly, are another matter," he said bitterly.

"That's alright then," Porthos said with relief, but Athos gave him a strange look.

"It may not be damning us, but what we are doing is still illegal. And immoral," Athos said stiffly. "I just happen to think it would be wise not to forget that. You - all of you, you're so - blatant, sometimes, so reckless. It frightens me. If we were to be discovered..." He let the thought trail off with a shudder.

"We are what we are," Porthos said obstinately. "We can't change that."

Athos stared at the floor. "I lost my home, and my family, because of what I am," he said in a quiet, tight voice. "Forgive me if I'm a little reticent."

Porthos looked at him in contrition and sudden sick misery. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked. "Would you rather not be doing this? Because I don't ever want to make you unhappy, Athos."

Athos looked up, eyes full of bewilderment. "Unhappy?" he breathed. "Porthos - " He raised a hand to cup Porthos' cheek, staring at him. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me," he whispered. "I love you. And I won't ever deny that, not to myself, not to anyone."

The awful straining tension that had been building in Porthos' chest suddenly eased, and he pulled Athos into his arms with a gasp of relief. "Athos." He hugged him tightly and Athos hugged back, shaking slightly.

Porthos kissed him then, mouth hot and demanding over his, and Athos leaned into it, drawing strength from his warm arms. 

After a while Porthos drew him down upon the bed, but Athos suddenly sat up again with a cry of surprise.

"Athos? What's wrong?" 

"The picture." Athos had left the photograph on the bedside table, and now he picked it up and stared at it in surprise. The dark stain obscuring his family had completely disappeared.

"Well that's a good sign." Porthos put his arms round him from behind and kissed him on the neck. "We did good today, Athos."

"Tell that to Aramis."

"Aramis would be the first to agree. What do you think would have happened, if we hadn't stopped it today?" 

"We saw it," Athos conceded with a sigh. "Hell on Earth."

"Exactly." Porthos kissed him again. "So, given that we stopped that happening - how about you stop worrying for a minute and let me take you to heaven instead?" 

Athos stared at him, then his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. "You've been working on that one, haven't you?" he accused.

"Might've been." Porthos grinned at him, and Athos gave a breathy huff of amusement that wasn't quite a laugh, but to Porthos it sounded like a choir of angels. It meant Athos wasn't beyond reach, that all this wasn't going to make him lock himself away emotionally, which was what Porthos had feared most.

Porthos reached out and drew Athos down against him once more, and this time Athos didn't pull away.

As they started to undress each other though, Athos appreciated for the first time exactly how bruised and battered Porthos was, and regarded him with dismay.

"What did they do to you?" he asked in a hushed voice. "Oh God, why did I ever leave you, I never believed what he said about you walking out, not for a second."

"I wondered what you'd been told," Porthos admitted. "I was afraid you were all locked up somewhere too." He kept quiet about his miserable time in the cellar, figuring Athos had enough to worry about. "I knew you'd come for me though." He kissed Athos on the mouth, and Athos gave him a watery smile.

"Does it hurt?" 

Porthos considered. "I know what'd make it hurt less."

"What?"

Porthos grinned. "Come here and kiss me all better."

\--

Aramis went back with d'Artagnan to his room in the college. It was less conspicuous than trying to smuggle him into the hotel, and neither of them wanted to be alone that night.

D'Artagnan seemed as preoccupied as Athos had, and once he'd let them in, rather than settle down he fussed around with a nervous energy, ostensibly tidying up but mostly just picking things up and putting them down again.

Aramis stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Are you alright?" Aramis asked. D'Artagnan looked startled, then resigned.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" he sighed. 

"I'm not the one who's had a demon riding around in me," Aramis pointed out. D'Artagnan looked away, and Aramis stroked a hand down his arm. "You can talk to me you know," he said softly. "I know you think you have to be strong and pretend everything's fine, but you really don't. Not with me."

D'Artagnan crumpled a little. "All that time, and I didn't know. Malphas hid himself from me, blocked the memories of when he was in control. There were little pockets of time, where I didn't remember what I'd been doing. Not just the two days at the monastery, but after that."

"Are you saying you can remember now?" Aramis asked in surprise, and d'Artagnan nodded reluctantly.

"I remember everything. As soon as he left me - when I came round, it was all there." He sat down on the narrow bed, suddenly, as if his legs had given way. Aramis sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulders.

D'Artagnan looked sideways at him. "I put that scalpel in your coat," he admitted, looking miserable.

Aramis shook his head. "No you didn't. It wasn't you. And I don't hold you accountable."

D'Artagnan gave a faint sigh, and leaned against him. Aramis pressed a kiss to his hair. "Was it very awful?" he asked. "Having him inside you?" D'Artagnan opened his mouth to make a flippant comment, caught Aramis' eye and gave in.

"I tried to fight him," he said softly. "But every time I gained any ground he'd come back twice as strong, and suddenly I'd forget everything again." He shifted back on the bed until he was leaning against the wall, his knees up against his chest. Aramis moved up next to him, and took hold of his hand. 

"The Abbott brought me those papers to catalogue," d'Artagnan said after a while. "I know now. I remember. I had to open the parchment of my own free will you see. But afterwards - when - when I wasn't me any more - he came to me, and I told him things. The ritual to open the gates, to bring me - him - into physical form."

"Where did it come from?" Aramis asked. "The parchment? Did he bring it with him, from France?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I think they found it under the slab, the first time they lifted it. Marmion wanted to open it himself, but Malphas had told him in a dream that the one who was to be his vessel would be sent to him. And then I turned up." D'Artagnan sighed gloomily, burying his face, knees pressing against his eyes. Aramis rubbed his back. 

"The seal carved on the slab," Aramis murmured, realising. "It wasn't put there by his followers at all was it? It was meant to keep him out. A binding. And a warning."

D'Artagnan sat up again and nodded. "The original monks bound him between two seals, on the stone and the parchment. When both were broken - he had a way in. Same as happened at your uncle's house, when Athos opened the Bestiary." He shuddered. "Malphas sent me to bring the rest of you into his service. The four pillars were symbolic, he could have had Marmion use any four of his monks, but he wanted us. As revenge, for stopping him before."

"Was he - " Aramis hesitated, knowing he probably shouldn't ask this but also knowing he was going to. "Was Malphas there when we - when we were together?"

D'Artagnan winced. "Honestly? Yes, I suppose so. Somewhere in there, anyway. But it was always me that was with you, I promise." He sighed. "Sorry."

Aramis shrugged lightly. "As long as it was you in the driving seat. I hope he got a good view. And to be fair, it wouldn't be the first time I've slept three to a bed."

D'Artagnan gave a shocked laugh. "I don't want to know." He considered this, then looked up. "Actually, possibly I do."

Aramis smirked, raising d'Artagnan's hand up to kiss his knuckles. "If I tell you, will it cheer you up?"

"It'll get more up than that." D'Artagnan moved round to straddle Aramis' lap, and Aramis settled his hands around d'Artagnan's waist. "So how about we get reacquainted? Now it really is just the two of us."

"No argument from me," Aramis smiled, leaning in to kiss him. 

Afterwards, temporarily resisting Aramis' attempts to lay him down on the bed, d'Artagnan drew back a little. "Are you really alright?" he asked. "You would tell me, if you weren't?"

Aramis regarded him seriously for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I honestly believe my soul is safe," he promised. 

"And if you're wrong?" d'Artagnan persisted, not wanting to get into an argument about it but finding it hard to believe Aramis could be quite so sanguine about matters.

"The life I've lead, the chances are it's the Pit for me in any case," Aramis declared, then immediately regretted it as he saw d'Artagnan had taken him seriously. "I'm joking," he said softly. "But, alright - if there is a way to fix things that need fixing - Athos will find it."

"Athos?" d'Artagnan echoed in surprise.

Aramis nodded. "I know him. He won't stop looking for an answer. And if it exists, he'll find it. Now that I really do have faith in."

D'Artagnan nodded, his expression one of mingled relief and jealousy, that Aramis should be placing his trust in Athos and not him.

"Don't look like that," Aramis teased, guessing his thoughts. "Division of labour, right? Athos gets the mouldy old occultism books, and you get - "

"You?" D'Artagnan finished for him, smiling again.

"Me," Aramis agreed, flopping onto his back and holding out his arms. "And given that your bed is ridiculously small, one of us is going to have to spend the night sleeping on top of the other one. Perhaps we should toss a coin."

D'Artagnan had started unbuttoning Aramis' trousers. "I reckon I can think of something better than that to toss."

They fell into each other's arms, laughing and kissing, and for the moment all fears and doubts faded away. On the window ledge outside the room, unseen by either of them but repelled by the sudden strength of love in the room, a large black crow spread its wings and sailed out into the night.

The sleeping town passed swiftly beneath beating wings, and a few minutes later the same crow alighted on another windowsill, several streets away. 

Looking with something more than bird-like intelligence between the curtains, it beheld a room lit by the faint glow of a lamp. In the bed, two men lay asleep in each other's arms, naked beneath the covers, and perfectly content.

The crow cocked its head, thoughts that had no place in its simple brain passing through it consideringly. And then something hit the glass with a bang on the inside of the pane, and the crow caught the loud and fierce hiss of an unseen cat.

The crow, which after all was still a crow, dropped away into the night, in its alarm ejecting the unwelcome presence right out of its brain and immediately forgetting all about it.

In the bedroom, the bed dipped briefly at the bottom as something that might once have been a cat settled against Athos' feet. He smiled faintly, nestling closer against Porthos' chest and being lulled back into a deeper sleep by his peaceful breathing. 

In the morning, there would be work to be done.

\--


End file.
